


Is this microphone live?

by skeilig



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Classic Rom Com Plot Beats, Coming Out, Deadlights (IT), Declarations Of Love, Getting Together, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nightmares, Richie Tozier's Stand Up Act, Romantic Gestures, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24457201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeilig/pseuds/skeilig
Summary: When Richie thinks about the situation, it takes the form of a stand-up set:The thing about living with the guy you’re in love with and his wife is…He’s still working on the punchline.Or: The classic post-Chapter 2 fic where Eddie and Richie move in together, but with the slight hitch that Eddie is still married. (feat. closure through dreams, communication via stand-up comedy, and serious analysis of modern art)
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 58
Kudos: 350
Collections: Richie/Eddie Bigbang 2019





	Is this microphone live?

**Author's Note:**

> [[I wrote this fic before Escape from L.A. was even a twinkle in my eye, and I’m not sure why Richie staying with Eddie and Myra has become my brand. I didn’t plan this. Don’t @ me.]]
> 
> thanks to alec queermccoy for creating [this amazing fanmix](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/50aqiwyEEbKNBcjrr2HmWI?si=_ZRGgm55SoiiIB050VPi6A) to accompany this fic. listen before/during/after reading. instead of reading. whatever, just listen to it.
> 
> thanks to holly rancidtozier for beta reading and for the title!  
> The title is from A Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out by Richard Siken  
> <https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48158/litany-in-which-certain-things-are-crossed-out>
> 
> [russian translation now available!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9566310)
> 
> **warning** : this is not a Stan lives fic and there are several references to his suicide and suicide note.

**i.**

It’s not until Eddie hears the front door unlock that he realizes he probably should have run this past Myra. 

Eddie and Richie look up from where they’re sitting at the kitchen table, Richie’s suitcase on the floor beside them. Myra sets the mail on the counter and regards them with suspicion. “Eddie, who is this?”

When Eddie takes a second too long to reply, Richie leaps to his feet and offers his hand. “You must be Mrs. K.”

Eddie winces. It’s true, she _is_ Mrs. K., but Eddie’s known Richie long enough to know the phrasing is anything but innocent. Myra shakes Richie’s hand—or rather, lets her hand be shook by Richie—all the while not taking her eyes off Eddie. 

“Myra,” Eddie begins, “This is my old friend Richie, from back home. He’s in New York for a few weeks and I told him he could stay in our guest room.” 

She gives Richie a pinched smile. “Oh. That’s– Eddie. Can you help me with the groceries?” She gestures over her shoulder as she starts backing up toward the garage. “Thanks, dear.” 

Richie gives him a ‘yikes’ look as Eddie stands up to follow. 

Once the door shuts behind him, Eddie says, “Myra–”

“Last Christmas, you made my parents stay in a hotel, but ‘your friend Richie’ gets the guest room? And for a few _weeks?_ ”

“I know I should have asked you–”

“I don’t mind being the bad guy, if you need to tell him your wife won’t let him stay. Or you could say you forgot that my sister is visiting next week and she needs to–”

“Wait, Liz isn’t visiting next week, right?”

Myra fixes him with a look. “No, Eddie.” 

He frowns. No way he’s about to walk in there and say, ‘my wife won’t let you stay,’ and Richie would immediately see through any bullshit excuse. Besides, Eddie _wants_ Richie to stay. And, okay, maybe he didn’t forget to ask as much as he purposefully didn’t ask because he didn’t want to take no for an answer. 

Eddie takes a different approach: “I invited him and he’s already here, so he’s going to stay. It would be rude to turn him away at this point.” 

Myra sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. “One week?”

Eddie nods hurriedly. He can negotiate his way up later. “Deal.”

He grabs the two bags of groceries from the trunk and they head back inside. 

She’s probably more willing to surrender to Eddie’s whims given recent events. A month ago, Eddie disappeared to Maine for seventy-two hours and returned with a stab wound, without his inhaler, and with a certain wildness in his eyes that had been absent as long as his childhood memories. 

In Derry, sometime between incurring the stab wound and returning to the sewers, Myra’s voicemails threatened to report him missing, so Eddie texted her to say that a friend had died and he had returned home for the funeral. Unfortunately, his excuse was half true.

After, he drove back to New York, through the night, sailing down empty interstates. He was worried he’d forget again. The scars on their palms had faded, the house on Neibolt had fallen, it seemed only natural that their memories would follow. 

Eddie never managed to give his wife a satisfactory explanation for his cheek wound, but he got stitches and a bit of dental work, and he kept it bandaged until it healed. A month later, it’s nothing but a raised white scar on the hollow of his cheek. He thinks it looks cool. He’s spent some time scowling into the mirror and admiring it. He can feel it when he speaks or smiles, tugging. He can feel it on the inside of his cheek too, running his tongue over the lump. 

The scar on his cheek faded but didn’t disappear, and his memories stayed entirely intact. This was a relief, but it also meant that his life-changing experience in Derry had an anticlimactic end. Not really life-changing at all. But he feels different. He can’t think of any way to describe it other than he feels _awake_ , which yeah, sounds a hell of a lot like a midlife crisis. He’s aware. But considering he just uncovered decades-old lost memories, and some real revelatory ones at that, he thinks he’s earned a midlife crisis. 

He spent a lot of time driving the past few weeks. Many evenings after work, he set out, tracing the river upstate or the coastline north, following unfamiliar highways to exits he never takes. After he got Stan’s letter, he drove all the way to Newport. He sat on the beach and read it again. He looked at the neat handwriting, and he imagined Stan writing _six_ of these, shaking out his hand when it got cramped, and he imagined his bereaved wife addressing the envelopes to people she had never heard of and sticking on the neat little return labels—and he sobbed. It felt like his chest was ripped open.

Stan said he ‘lived his whole life afraid.’ He’s not the only one. Stan said, ‘Don’t.’ Like it’s that fucking easy. It’s not as if Eddie was any braver than Stan. He was just stupider. Maybe _he_ should be dead. 

He and Stan were always the two that would stay outside of the sewer complaining about the smell, or would first volunteer to stand watch outside of Neibolt. But then, always, Eddie went in. Eddie followed. So, when he got Mike’s call, he went. He didn’t even think about it. And when they went into Neibolt again, he followed. And when Richie was in the deadlights, he charged in after him, fence stake gripped in his fist. None of it was bravery. The only thing, really, that could spur him from his paralyzing fear was his friends. He didn’t want to disappoint them; he didn’t want them to know he was a coward. 

It’s like his mother used to say: _If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you jump, too?_ Of course. Obviously. He’ll do you one better and jump off a cliff, screaming all the way down.

Eddie has lived his whole life afraid, too. Just he’s learned how to hide it. 

A month after Derry, when Richie texted him, not the Losers group chat but Eddie directly, it was exactly what he needed. Richie said, _Let’s meet up while I’m in town!_ but Eddie couldn’t stand the thought of being in the same city as Richie for weeks and only seeing him a handful of times for dinner, so he replied: _Want to stay with me?_

He’s making up for lost time, he reasons. Twenty-seven years of it. He would do the same for any of the Losers—he really would—but with Richie, the offer wasn’t merely polite or friendly; there was a cloying need that accompanied it. His fingers itched while he waited a few excruciating minutes for Richie’s response. Finally: _Sure, thanks!_

Long Island isn’t exactly convenient to Richie’s business, but Richie had no qualms when Eddie sent over his address. 

And, while Eddie gives him the tour, Myra quietly shadowing them to each room, Richie still doesn’t act like any of this is weird. 

“Master bedroom and bath that way,” Eddie points down the hall. “Guest room and bathroom here.”

“Sweet.” Richie hurls his suitcase onto the foot of the bed. “Thanks.”

Half an hour later, they sit down for dinner. A large portion of what Eddie and Myra eat are frozen dinners for two, so, to accommodate the interloper, Myra doubled tonight’s portion of chicken fettuccine. After a couple minutes of stirring as the frozen blocks of sauce melted, she divvied it up onto three plates. Eddie feels excited about the slightly larger portion. Then he feels stupid and boring that _that’s_ his bar for excitement these days. 

Richie sits down in what is usually Eddie’s chair, closest to the window, and Eddie pauses, considers saying something, asking him to move, but that’s ridiculous so he doesn’t. Instead, he sits down between Richie and Myra. 

“So,” Myra begins after they take their first few bites. “You grew up with Eddie?”

“Yeah!” Richie answers with too much enthusiasm. “Derry, Maine.” He pumps a fist. “Go clowns.” 

Eddie nearly chokes. He reaches for his glass of water, eyes burning. Myra glances between them, like she knows she’s missing something. 

“Our school mascot, right, Eds?” Richie continues, still straight-faced. “Or was it the werewolves? The lepers?” 

Eddie just shakes his head, coughs a few times. “Go lepers.” In something like a deadpan cheerleader chant, he adds, “L-E-P-E-R-S.”

Richie bursts into laughter, throwing his head back and clapping his hands. 

Myra looks back and forth between them, fork gripped in her hand and eyes flickering. Then she lets out a nervous laugh and looks back to her plate. “Did you reconnect last month? Back in Maine?”

Eddie nods and answers, “Yeah,” before Richie can say anything else weird. 

Myra’s face smooths out, finding her footing in this disaster of a dinner conversation. She looks back to Richie and says, “I’m sorry about your friend.”

Richie glances to Eddie with a glimmer of concern, confusion, before he turns back to Myra. He smiles sadly. “Thanks. I am, too.”

Eddie does not feel confident starting a conversation with Richie right now—there are so many things he wants to say, but none he can say to him with an audience—but Myra doesn’t let the awkward silence linger for too long. 

She asks, “What brings you to New York?” 

Richie answers through a mouthful of pasta, “Work. I’m a comedian.”

“Oh,” Myra says. “Are you?”

It sounds a lot like a subtle insult, which has to be unintentional; Eddie knows Myra would never be rude to a guest at their dinner table, not on purpose. Still, Eddie can’t help but start laughing, sudden and hard enough that he nearly chokes again. After a moment of looking offended at the reaction, Richie follows in loud barking laughs, the type that draw annoyed looks in public. 

Poor Myra looks lost again, eyes round and cheeks pink. “Oh, I didn’t mean…”

Richie waves his hand, wipes his eyes. “No, no, please, don’t worry about it. I can take it as well as I can dish it out.”

This only has Myra looking more abashed. If Eddie knows her, she wasn’t trying to dish _anything_ out. 

Richie continues, “I, uh, just fired my ghostwriters so I’m striking out on my own now. Gonna try out some original material here because if New York’s known for anything it’s gentle audiences, right?”

After they’re done eating, Richie makes a big show of clearing the dishes, tells Eddie to relax and that he’s got it. But then Richie starts loading the dishwasher _without rinsing the dishes first_ so Eddie hops up to intervene. 

“I should have known,” Richie says, fondly exasperated, as Eddie takes the plates out of the dishwasher. “You’re one of those.” 

Eddie begins to explain that he just doesn’t like putting dishes that are gunked up with food into the dishwasher, it’s really not a weird thing at all, and it only takes, like, five extra seconds to rinse them first, but he trails off. “Yeah, I’m one of those.”

At midnight, Eddie is wide awake. He lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling and listening to Myra’s raspy snoring beside him. It’s loud and deep and irregular enough that each one jolts him freshly back to alertness. He used to have ear plugs for this very purpose. But he doesn’t have them anymore because, for the past few months, he has been sleeping exclusively in the guest room. This fact did not cross his mind when he offered the room to Richie; in fact, it didn’t cross his mind until he said goodnight to Richie two hours ago. 

He’ll get some ear plugs tomorrow. For now, he grabs his phone and pillow and tip-toes out of the bedroom, easing the door shut behind him, not sure why he’s taking such care to be silent. 

It’s dark and he’s tired, so Eddie gets almost all the way to the couch before he realizes that someone is sitting on it. He jumps. “Oh, shit, you’re still up.” 

Richie looks back at him, wide-eyed. “Yeah.” Richie sits cross-legged on the couch in a t-shirt and boxers, phone in hand. His eyes move down to Eddie’s flannel pajamas and then to the pillow under his arm. “Wait, what are you–? Were you gonna sleep out here?” 

“Look, I… usually sleep in the guest room, but… Don’t look at me like that, lots of married couples don’t sleep together. _In the same bed_ , I mean. Asshole.” 

Richie’s laughing. “I didn’t say anything. You had that argument entirely on your own.” 

Eddie cracks a smile in spite of himself and sits down next to Richie on the couch. “You’re a night owl?” 

“I guess,” Richie says, noncommittal. “I’ve kinda been having trouble sleeping for the past few weeks. So I just stay up until I’m all bleary-eyed and about to pass out. It’s fine.” 

“Yeah, I get that.” 

Richie seems to reject his easy sympathy, shaking his head. “But it’s not… It’s… When I was in the deadlights…” He takes a long pause. “It’s, like, stupid, but I guess It likes to show you things, like he’s a real entertainer. You know, Bev saw all of us die? And I still don’t really understand what the point is, like Bev thought they were omens… because of Stanley, but none of the rest of us…” He clears his throat. “I think it’s more about fear. I mean, that would be really on-brand, right?”

It feels like the pressure in the room changes. Eddie swallows and whispers, “What did you see?”

“Well, I saw… You.” Richie shrugs. “Like, I was lying in the cave and I thought I had just come out of the deadlights but I was still in it. You were above me, waking me up. You were saying you killed It, which I guess should have been my first tip-off, like, you? No offense, Eds–”

“Richie…”

“Then you… Well. It was like…” Richie makes an explosion sound as he gestures his hands from the center of his chest out. “Like _Alien_ , you know? Giant claw-dagger burst right through. Blood and guts. Real slasher flick effects, like food dye and corn syrup. But it tasted…” He pauses, wets his lips, eyes distant. He shakes his head and inhales sharply. “We went to the quarry after, but you weren’t with us. We left you down there. We left your– They wouldn’t– The others, they dragged me away. I was screaming. My voice felt hoarse, even when I came out of it.” 

Eddie feels panicky seeing the shine in Richie’s eyes, hearing him sniff harshly as he rubs his nose with his sleeve. Vulnerability is rare enough on Richie to take his breath away, chest constricting. “Rich. Richie,” he says, earnest and firm. “It wasn’t real. Okay? This is real.” Eddie is holding his hand now, he realizes, and Richie clutches back. 

After a moment, Richie replies with a bit of fire, “I know what’s real and not real.” But he doesn’t let go of Eddie’s hand. “It’s just, you know, sometimes I have dreams.”

Eddie’s not sure what to say to that. He’s quiet for a moment and then Richie withdraws his hand. Richie lifts his glasses to wipe under his eyes and as he does, he laughs and says, “So, did Ben and Bev adopt a dog together?”

Eddie blinks a few times as he switches conversational tracks. “What?”

“Yeah, do you follow Bev on Instagram?” 

Eddie doesn’t because he’s not on Instagram, so Richie shows him Bev’s profile. Well, her personal one because she’s a public enough figure to have two. The past few weeks of sailing adventures with Ben are well documented and—sure enough—there’s been a dog in the picture for about half that time. 

“That was fast,” Eddie says, taking Richie’s phone from him so he can scroll. The most recent post shows Ben wearing glasses and flannel pajamas, napping on a couch with an open book on his chest and the German Shepherd sprawled out on his lap. The caption reads ‘Lazy Sundays’ with a heart emoji. 

Richie says, “All I’m saying is I better be best man.”

“Why you? I’m their friend, too.” 

“They can have four best men, it’s 2016,” Richie says. “Do you think they have any other friends they’ll want to have in their wedding, anyway? I mean, wait, when you got married, who was in your wedding?”

Eddie frowns; he really doesn’t want to discuss his marriage with Richie. “It was pretty small. My cousin was my best man.”

That’s all he’s going to say about that. Richie doesn’t ask any follow-up questions, so Eddie returns to scrolling through Bev’s photos and then Ben’s. 

It makes Eddie’s heart ache to see this happy ending—or happy new beginning—for his friends. Of course they deserve it and he’s thrilled for them, and he’s glad to hear that Bill’s writing is going well and that Mike is finally leaving Derry and that Richie is taking a new direction in his comedy, but Eddie…

He went back to his life. He feels different, but he hasn’t been brave enough to really change anything yet, or even to get to the root of the restless feeling that makes him _want_ a change—and it’s been a month. With each passing day, his resolve dwindles. So far all he’s done is what he’s always done: realize something dark and fucked-up and broken about himself and think _hmm, that explains some things_ , and then lock it away. 

When Eddie finishes his social media stalking session a few minutes later, he realizes he’s been hogging Richie’s phone. But then he realizes that the entire time, Richie has been looking at a phone, too, which must mean–

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks, snatching his own phone back. 

Richie laughs, not offering an explanation as Eddie looks at the screen. He was setting up an Instagram for Eddie; the handle is ekaspbrak which is much more mature than Eddie would have expected from Richie—no eddiespaghetti—and the profile picture is a photo of Eddie taken minutes ago, unaware of being photographed as he sits on the couch in his pajamas, one hand resting against his mouth as he looks down at the phone in his other. And he’s following only one person and it’s richtozier. 

Eddie laughs. “Perfect. I’ve been meaning to do that.” 

They spend another hour or so chatting and making tentative plans for the weekend and Richie invites Eddie to his first show on Monday night. The thing about talking to any of the Losers, Eddie has found, but especially Richie, is that there’s very little ‘catching up.’ It doesn’t feel like they’re missing decades of each others’ lives. Maybe they do regress a little, around each other, but it feels more like they grew together, even though they were apart. Parallel. 

It’s far too late when the conversation lulls. They’re both lying back on the couch, propped against opposite arm rests, legs and feet bumping. Eddie savors the casual contact. He’s out of practice and therefore all too aware of where Richie’s bent knee rests against his thigh. He used to have a lot more of this when he was a kid. Hugs and play-wrestling and fighting over the clubhouse hammock with Richie before he would climb in on top of him, proving some point he never really understood. Then he grew up and he didn’t touch very many people anymore. He shied away from it. And there’s something about this that makes him want to rearrange their limbs to put some distance between them, and there’s something about this that makes him want to stay here forever. 

“You should take the guest room,” Richie says through a stifled yawn. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No, no,” Eddie says. “I have to be up in…” he cranes his neck to check the time on the wall clock, “…three hours anyway. Fuck.”

They both laugh, silly and exhausted. Then Richie hauls himself to his feet with effort and Eddie settles in on the couch. Richie says goodnight and Eddie echoes it warmly, eyes already closed. 

Three hours later, Eddie wakes up to the harsh vibration of his cell phone against the coffee table. He usually wakes up before his alarm, but no such luck this morning. He silences his phone and stumbles down the hall to his bedroom—Myra is still asleep—and to the bathroom. He’s in the shower, letting the steam and water turn him pink and raw, when there’s a tap on the door. 

He tenses at the intrusion, and at the realization that he didn’t lock the door. Myra hates it when he locks the bathroom door because _what if something happens and he needs help?_ He told her once, in a snappy tone, that if he slips and falls ( _80% of bathroom-related injuries_ ) and cracks his skull in the tub then that’s just the natural conclusion of his life and there’s no fighting it. She did not find this very comforting—or amusing. Ever since, when she finds the door locked, she becomes very agitated, very quickly. Still, this morning, Eddie wishes he had locked the door. 

After returning to Derry, and filling in the fuzzy gaps in his childhood memories, Eddie realized why he’s always had such intense hang-ups with privacy. He never got privacy as a kid; he was always prepared for the door to be thrown open, whether bathroom or bedroom, or to have whatever meager contraband he dared to stash under his mattress discovered in a quasi-raid. A therapist would probably tell him that he’s carried that tension and secretiveness into adulthood. And yeah, maybe sometimes he’ll watch a movie that he knows Myra wouldn’t like him watching and then bury it in the Netflix queue. And if he gets fast food, he always disposes of the evidence away from home. 

Before Derry, he thought of these transgressions as shameful. Moments of weakness. Now, he’s beginning to re-contextualize them, alongside the little acts of brave defiance from his childhood. The comics borrowed from Richie that he would stash between the coils of the radiator. The pills that he would expertly hide under his tongue and then flush down the toilet. 

The door opens a crack and Eddie calls, “Yeah?”

Myra says, “I could hear you talking at three in the morning. You shouldn’t stay up so late. And did you sleep on the couch? You know that’s not good for your–” 

“We were just catching up,” Eddie says, cutting her off. He closes his eyes against the steam, eyelashes wet and heavy. “It’s been a long time and we’re… close friends.” 

A beat. “Then why have you never mentioned him before?”

Eddie has no idea what to say to that. So, he doesn’t answer. After half a minute, the door closes and he’s alone again. 

**ii.**

When Richie thinks about the situation, it takes the form of a stand-up set: _The thing about living with the guy you’re in love with and his wife is…_

He’s still working on the punchline. 

There are pros and cons. Pro: He gets to see Eddie every day. Eddie smiles when he sees him, with ease and relief. Con: Eddie works typical, if long, hours, so he’s gone before Richie wakes up in the morning. Richie’s obligations are mostly in the evenings, so for the first couple days, he only gets Eddie for an hour or so at night before he has to go to bed. Pro: Being in Eddie’s house is a glimpse into how he lives, and Richie finds this endlessly fascinating. In the morning, when Eddie isn’t there, he looks around Eddie’s space and at his things. A shelf in the master bedroom displays books covering just about every diet fad from the past twenty years, most of which directly contradict each other. His medicine cabinet rivals most clinics in both variety and quantity. Con: Snooping around makes him feel guilty and creepy and that outweighs whatever small joy he gets from looking through Eddie’s meticulously organized closet. He reaches out to touch the starched white shirts, knowing he’s being ridiculous and dramatic, and knowing he’s torturing himself—and _knowing_ how Eddie would look at him if he knew—but still, after all this time, unable to stop. 

Another con: The _wife_ of it all. Reminders are everywhere. Her clothes next to his in the closet. Two sinks in the master bath, two toothbrushes, two sets of towels. Two fluffy bathrobes hanging on a hook on the back of the door. 

And, for what it’s worth, her actual presence doesn’t help. On the third morning, a Friday, Richie wakes up at his usual hour of 10am and emerges from the guest room in search of coffee. 

This morning, Myra is there. She’s standing at the kitchen counter, on the phone. She’s dressed for the day, blouse and cardigan, hair curled and eyebrows carefully penciled in. She gives Richie a once-over. His hair is a mess and he wears a wrinkled sleep shirt—a Rusted Root tour shirt from ’98 that he bought secondhand in ‘04—and sweatpants. He smiles pleasantly at her. Richie can fake amiability with the best of them, so he doesn’t worry too much that he’ll give himself away. At least not to Myra. Eddie, on the other hand, has a way of fucking with his facade. 

Myra returns the smile, but maybe she isn’t so well-versed in faking pleasantness. Richie feels her distaste loud and clear as she takes her phone call to the other room. She seems to be on the phone with a doctor—no surprise there—as she inquires after a prescription. Richie refills the water tank of the Keurig. 

As he waits for the coffee maker to do its thing, he glances at the label (‘Keurig’), looks away, and glances back (still ‘Keurig’). 

It’s a reality check. He’s been forgetting to do them, but his frenzied late-night research on how to stop recurring nightmares turned up lucid dreaming and now for the past few weeks he’s been making a half-hearted attempt to learn how. Reading is a popular choice for reality-checks, since text doesn’t appear correctly in dreams. So is looking in a mirror, or at one’s own hands. Apparently if he makes it a habit to be aware of these details while awake, eventually he’ll start doing it in dreams, allowing him to realize when he’s asleep and then take control of the dream. 

The nightmares are regular and consistent. At least a few nights a week, he re-lives Eddie dying and the house collapsing. His brain doesn’t even bother to change what It showed him in the deadlights. It’s the exact same nightmare scenario that plays out again and again, perfectly crafted to hurt him in the worst way. 

This leaves him wondering if the deadlights vision actually was Its doing. Maybe it was entirely Richie’s subconscious, left to its own devices and just as talented at torturing Richie as any inter-dimensional monster. 

He doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. 

Exactly twice Richie realized he was in a dream. Both times were after Eddie had died and his friends had dragged him out of the house and the house had collapsed. In the middle of screaming his throat raw, the trauma felt too familiar. He stopped screaming, the feeling of deja vu clouding his grief and terror, and then he woke up. 

The first time, when he fell back asleep, it picked up right where he left off. But he woke himself up again.

Maybe he’s thinking about it wrong, but he likes to think that for the dreams to stop, it’s not enough to just wake up. He has to take control of the dream, change his fate, change Eddie’s fate. He’s sure that if he manages to do that, the nightmares will stop. 

Richie drinks his coffee and showers and takes the train into Manhattan. He's starting to feel woozy from the lack of food, so when he arrives shortly before noon, he texts Eddie on a whim: _Wanna meet for lunch?_

Eddie texts back within a couple minutes: _I brought a lunch today._

 _You are too boring for words_ , Richie replies, smiling down at his phone as he walks. _I’m buying. Where do you want to meet?_

They meet at a deli near Eddie’s office. When Eddie walks in, he’s wearing a suit and tie and for a moment Richie regrets not going into a more traditional line of work himself. Eddie looks _good_ , all angular lines and broad shoulders; Richie starts having some unprompted fantasy set in a corporate boardroom, until he shakes that from his head. When Eddie spots Richie, he gives him that same relieved smile he always gives him upon meeting. It feels like: _My day doesn’t start until I see you_. Or at least, that’s how Richie wants to interpret it. When Eddie sits down across the table from him, he shrugs off his suit jacket and loosens his tie and Richie thinks he’d like to see that every day for the rest of his life. 

Richie has already ordered—two pastrami sandwiches sit on the table between them—so they dig in. 

Richie asks, “How’s work going?” 

Eddie shoots him a look while he approaches the huge sandwich. “Are you gonna pretend to sleep again if I start telling you?” 

Richie feigns indignation. “I would never do something so rude.” 

So Eddie tells him. It’s mostly complaining and it’s all his usual fire. Someone accidentally cc’d someone they shouldn’t have on an email and it sounds like that’s the most exciting thing that can possibly happen in his world. Apparently Eddie has a needy client who’s really getting on his nerves lately, and his boss is terrible at communicating. 

Richie loves watching him like this. The faster he talks, the louder he gets, and it’s not long before his hands join the party, gesturing in angry little stabs. Eddie barely manages to eat his food in his allotted time, and Richie doesn’t make it very far either since he’s laughing too much. His laughter only eggs Eddie on and it becomes a bit of a routine, Eddie aware of the fact that he’s performing, face flushed bright. 

Richie thinks that Eddie is the funniest person in the world. _He_ should be the stand-up comedian. 

Eventually Eddie checks the time. “Shit.” He finishes his sandwich in a few quick bites and stands up from the table. “Thanks, Richie. This was better than eating Lean Cuisine at my desk.”

“Do you want to meet when you get off?” Richie asks, feeling some desperation bleed into his tone. “I’m going to a comedy show tonight. One of my friends is performing. You should come with me.”

Eddie falters, a frown slipping through. “Myra was going to cook dinner…

“That’s fine–” Richie says hurriedly, but Eddie interrupts, “I’ll call her.”

“She could… come with us?” Richie suggests.

Eddie makes a face. “Uh, I’m not sure she’d want to. Shit, I gotta go, I’m gonna be late.”

“Wait–” Richie stands up and steps toward him, reaching for his tie before he can think better of it. As he tightens it, slides the knot up to the base of his throat, Eddie’s hands rise to hover over Richie’s.

“Oh,” Eddie says. “Thanks.” His face is hard to read. That’s one of the differences Richie has noted between the Eddie he knew when they were kids, and Eddie now. Eddie used to be something of an open book. Quicker to smile and to anger. Now his face is mostly straight lines, and Richie has to catch the moments where he falters, and some emotion is betrayed. 

Now, Eddie doesn’t slip. So Richie cracks a joke: “Yeah, can’t let you go back to work looking like you had a quickie on your lunch break.” 

Richie winces after he says it, but Eddie only laughs. “Yeah. That scandal would rock the entire seventh floor.” 

After they part ways, Richie goes to a cafe and sits in front of his laptop for a few hours. Working with his writers, he used to read what they’d give him and scoff and think _I could do so much better_. And sometimes he would tweak a few lines and his delivery was often the thing that made the material work, so he spent years thinking _how hard could it be?_

Now that he’s on his own, he’s spent the past few weeks sitting in front of mostly blank documents.

He thinks a lot of disparaging things about himself. He can’t write because he doesn’t have anything to say. He’s just a puppet— _a clown_ , his brain helpfully provides—whose best use is parroting other people’s words. If he ever was funny, it’s only situationally. He can land a joke if the set-up is right, but if he has to fill an hour on his own…

Richie spins his wheels for a few more minutes, staring at the blinding white of the blank document, the blinking, mocking cursor. 

Then he starts writing the story Eddie told him. It’s still on his mind, and something about the apocalyptic tone he used to describe an email mishap struck him as funny, so he writes it all down. It flows easily. 

Then he re-writes the story from his own perspective, throwing in a few jokes here and there, about how these types of stories are his only glimpse into the office-worker world. Then he envisions all of this as a reality TV show and what that would look like, so he writes a few paragraphs about that. 

After two hours, he has a few pages titled Lunch With Your White-Collar Friend. He reads it back to himself, muttering under his breath to figure out inflection and edit for flow; he ends up happy with the result. 

At six, Richie waits outside of a tall office building and watches the suit-clad men and women stream out. Finally he spots Eddie and takes a few steps toward him; Eddie does that _smile_ again, a smile like shrugging off a coat or slipping out of your shoes after a long day. For a brief, cruel moment, Richie thinks, _Do you smile at your wife like that?_

When Eddie reaches him, Richie says, “TGIF, right?” He could totally be an office worker. He’d crush it.

“It’s been a long week,” Eddie says, without much trace of humor. “I had so much coffee today to make up for the three hours of sleep that I’m–” He raises a hand, palm to the ground, and it trembles. 

“Aren’t you always like that?” Richie slaps his hand to Eddie’s back and leaves it there, ushering him down the sidewalk. “You’re like a nervous, angry little Chihuahua.”

Eddie side-eyes him, the corner of his mouth betraying amusement even as his brow holds the line. “Not a Pomeranian?”

Richie dramatically full-body shudders. “Warn a guy before you mention those little demons.”

They get dinner and a few drinks (Richie tells him he has to balance out the caffeine somehow, only to goad Eddie into lecturing about the risks of combining alcohol and caffeine—but his statistics don’t stop him from drinking), and then they go to the show. 

Richie buys them each another drink inside of the comedy club and they claim a high-top table near the back. While they wait for the show to start, Richie explains that the headliner is his friend, Kristen, who he met during his brief guest star stint on a TV show she used to write for. They’re around the same age and have a similar sardonic sense of humor, so they hit it off. What Richie doesn’t explain to Eddie is that Kristen is a lesbian and she’s been out her entire stand-up career, mining the awkwardness and pain for comedy with a deft touch that Richie admires. For a long time, he admired it secretly. Eventually he told her, and he told her why. Kristen is one of the few friends who Richie has come out to over the years, and she might be the only one who has never been judgmental about it, never asked him why he’s not out. 

They’re both busy and travel a lot, and her home base is New York and his is L.A., so they don’t see each other often. But the friendship is rekindled whenever they find themselves in the same city. 

Richie isn’t familiar with the comedian who opens for Kristen. His name is Naveen and he’s young, probably twenty-five, and tall, wearing jeans and bright white sneakers. He’s funny, too, in the way that Kristen is funny. He draws on his own experience as a first-generation American with immigrant parents, imbuing it with comedy on his own terms. He’s a good storyteller, and so is Kristen. They’re both so genuine, and even when there are long pauses between laughs, the audience is enraptured, just listening to their stories. Plus, Kristen has this gut-busting bit about her excessive vibrator purchases in her early twenties. Richie has heard it a few times before, but he still laughs. And Eddie laughs a lot, too, at all of it. At times, he’s doubled over, shoulders shaking, and Richie smiles and watches him, taking the opportunity to pat his back. 

While Richie watches Naveen and Kristen, he starts to feel pretty stupid for never even attempting to write for himself. Losing his memories of his awkward adolescence set him back some material, but did it also cost him his ambition? His creativity? Thirteen-year-old Richie would not be happy with what forty-year-old Richie calls a career. When he was young, Richie was, above all else, original. He may not have always been _funny_ , but he told each joke with a bubbling pride in his chest. He was daring and bold and he never played it safe, and he had the broken glasses to prove it. 

Maybe he’s in an inspiration hole. When he makes the other Losers laugh, when he makes Eddie laugh, it helps him begin to scrabble his way out of it. And it helps to see good comedy. For a moment, with a sinking feeling, he thinks, _I will never be able to write something like this_. Then he thinks about it more and his fingers are already itching with ideas and he thinks, _But maybe I can learn_. 

Afterward, when the lights come up, Eddie is still chuckling and wiping his eyes. Richie tells him they’re invited to get drinks with the comedians, and Eddie seems _nervous_ at that prospect. (Which is absurdly cute.) He straightens up and thumbs at the stage. “With them?” 

After the bar clears, Richie leads him to the tiny backstage, and Eddie seems so excited about it ( _cute_ ), looking up at the lights and rope lines and pulleys with interest. If only Eddie had been around for Richie’s short-lived run as a theater kid in college. Richie would have taken him up to the catwalk, really impressed him. Maybe made out with him a little bit. It’s his fantasy, alright? 

When Kristen spots Richie, she pulls him into a big hug and then looks expectantly at Eddie. Richie introduces him as his ‘friend,’ stressing the word more than is necessary, but Eddie doesn’t seem to notice. Kristen introduces them both to Naveen and then they slip out the back door and head to a bar a couple blocks away. 

The thing about getting together with other comedians is that it can easily become a bloodbath. Everyone tries to be the funniest person in the room and it’s exhausting. Richie has seen more than a few ostensibly casual dinners escalate to a punchline arms race. But Kristen has never really had that energy, and neither does Naveen. So, while they make a lot of jokes, there’s no icy glint of competition to it. It feels like friends hanging out. 

At one point, Naveen shyly mentions he’s always been a fan of Richie’s impressions, which is a reputation he’s trying to distance himself from; the only thing worse than being the guy who tells other people’s jokes is being the guy who steals other people’s voices. But he humors them with a bit of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Tom Cruise. 

Eddie eats it all up, laughing hard enough that he clutches his stomach and drops his head to the table, which makes Richie reconsider his moratorium on impressions. 

When Eddie’s not laughing, he’s drinking, throwing back three martinis in a row. Between his second and third, Eddie fumbles out his phone and announces that he needs to take a selfie for his Instagram. (“Are you on Instagram?” he asks Kristen and Naveen.) He takes a picture of the four of them huddled around the table, Eddie smiling wide and not looking at the camera, posts it, and gains his next two followers. 

After, Kristen points to the hollow of her own cheek, the spot where Eddie’s is scarred. “What’s the story here? Shaving accident?” 

“Yeah, no one told me I shouldn’t shave with a Bowie knife,” he says, deadpan, and Richie snorts into his drink. Then Eddie’s eyes brighten and he leans forward. “Actually, actually, here’s the real story. I got stabbed. By an escaped serial killer in the bathroom at a B&B. He–” Eddie mimes stabbing his own cheek, knocking his head to one side. 

It makes Richie sick to think of the particulars of this event—and what he was doing at the time. Trying to leave town, leave his friends behind, leave _Eddie_. Because of some stupid, overblown fear of being exposed? Why does that still have some kind of pull on him, all this time later? He’s still that kid in the arcade, stricken with the realization that other people can know him—see through him—even if he barely knows himself. It stopped him from telling his friends what his token really meant and it stopped him from telling his manager why he wanted to fire his writing team and it stopped him from telling Eddie why he’s really in New York.

“I had to–,” Eddie continues acting it out, “–pull it out of my own fucking face, and then I–,” He thrusts his fist forward, “–stabbed the guy in the chest.” 

Eddie’s face is deadly serious, if a little wild-eyed, but Kristen and Naveen are laughing. From a distance, it does all sound like some weird joke. So, Richie jumps in. “I killed that guy, later that night. Ax to the head.” He flicks his wrist, and makes the _crrck_ sound of impact in the back of his throat. “That was one hell of a class reunion.” 

Eddie stares for a moment before he bursts into laughter. Richie follows him, chuckling. He doesn’t like thinking about it, and now he can hear the sickening crack of Henry Bowers’ skull; but really, how is he meant to cope with that if he can’t laugh about it? Richie Tozier, ax murderer. With a footnote that reads: _In self-defense_.

Kristen asks, “Where’d you two grow up, again?” 

“Derry, Maine,” Eddie answers. 

“Sounds… eventful,” Naveen says. 

“It’s like the wild west of New England,” Richie says. “Lawless, godforsaken place.” 

“In the 20s, there was this– Hey, look up the Bradley gang!” Eddie nearly shouts it and whacks Richie’s arm. 

“Okay, okay.” Richie googles it for him, without pointing out that Eddie has his own phone, and then tilts his screen toward Eddie. Eddie cups his hands around Richie’s to steady the phone and reads aloud off the Wikipedia page.

It’s not a particularly fun story, and Eddie recounts it with an unhinged mania that makes it even less fun. When he’s done, Kristen and Naveen’s eyes are wide. “That’s fucking horrifying,” Naveen mutters. 

“Yeah, well,” Richie says with a shrug. Eddie lets go of his hand finally and Richie pockets his phone. “That’s our hometown.” 

It’s late when they take the train back home. They sit in the molded plastic seats next to each other, and Richie’s not sure exactly when or how it happened, but Eddie’s head rests on Richie’s shoulder. 

Richie had been typing notes on his phone, on a roll, inspired by the night out, but he stopped as soon as he felt Eddie’s weight fall against him. He froze, not daring to move his arm. Moving would be too much like a question, too much like asking, _Are you sure?_ It would give Eddie the chance to pull away with a laugh, or a mumbled apology. Or to recommit, and nestle in closer. So, Richie doesn’t move. Like an animal caught in a trap that thinks, _maybe if I stay perfectly still you won’t realize that you’ve caught me, and then I won’t have been caught._

For a moment, he lets himself pretend it’s real. They’re on the train late, going home. Maybe they have a cramped apartment in Brooklyn together. Tonight, they were at Eddie’s office Christmas party. Richie spent all night resting his hand on the small of Eddie’s back and chatting with his coworkers. It was fun, but when they left, Eddie was relieved to be alone again, just the two of them, and he complained to Richie about Tim, who always brings up politics at these things, and it’s not that Eddie doesn’t _like_ talking politics, but he can’t talk politics without fighting—or at least, without speaking in a tone and register that other people read as fighting—so he’d rather not get started. Richie smiled and said, “You were right, though.” Eddie said, “I _know_ I was right,” eyes flashing again. 

And that nice little fantasy brings him back to the present moment. He wouldn’t change much about this. He can feel Eddie’s hair brush his neck and he can hear his breath. Eddie’s eyes are closed, lashes fanned against his cheeks. It’s damn near perfect.

But Eddie wouldn’t do this if he knew what it meant to Richie. And Richie shouldn’t _let_ him do this at all; it’s a betrayal of trust, and Richie is so selfish, taking whatever Eddie will give him, and always wanting more. 

Richie still doesn’t move, except to dig his fingernails into his own thigh. 

When they reach their stop, Richie finally shifts his shoulder—it’s stiff, his arm tingling all the way to his fingertips—and whispers, “Hey, Eds.” 

Eddie blinks first, glances up at Richie, smiles, and then—slowly—sits up, taking his warmth with him. 

“I’m so tired,” Eddie says, while they trudge back to his house. He yawns so massively that he has to stop walking for a moment, so as to not lose his balance. 

Once they’re inside, Eddie kicks off his shoes and takes the few steps toward the couch before he falls onto it, still fully dressed.

“You should take the guest room,” Richie whispers, hovering near him.

Eddie shakes his head, eyes closed. “I like the couch. S’nice.” 

“Okay,” Richie says, beginning to back away. “Goodnight.”

“That was fun,” Eddie says with a sigh. “I live in New York but I feel like I’m wasting it, I never have nights like this. I never go out, I never meet new people… That was really fun. Thank you.” 

Richie pauses, a lump rising in his throat. He swallows it down. “Yeah, of course. I had a lot of fun, too.” 

“Good.” Eddie smiles, eyes still closed, wistful—and so open. Richie doesn’t have to read between the lines in his face. “Goodnight, Richie.” 

On Saturday morning, when Richie ventures from the guest room, he finds Eddie and Myra already at the kitchen table, sitting opposite each other and eating oatmeal with fruit and granola. Eddie seems to have already been up for a while. He’s showered, dressed, hair neatly in place. But there’s darkness around his eyes, strain around his mouth. He’s gotta be tired. Maybe hungover, too, Richie thinks, sharing a private smile with the Keurig. 

Richie sits down in the chair between Eddie and Myra with only a mug of coffee. Eddie tells him to help himself to the pot of steel-cut oats on the stove. Or cereal, if he wants it. Or anything. Make himself at home. Richie smiles and thanks him but he’ll stick with the coffee for now. Richie’s eyes fall on a variety of pills that sit on the table in front of Eddie—a mix of vitamins and prescriptions, if he had to guess—along with a half glass of orange juice. When Eddie’s done eating, he scoops up the pills and tosses them all back at once, downing them in one gulp like the pro he is. 

Then Myra clears the dishes. “We should leave by ten,” she says, as she does the pre-wash at the sink. “To make it to Liz’s for lunch.” 

“Oh.” Eddie’s mouth twists around a frown. “Richie and I actually had… plans today.” 

This is news to Richie. And he looks like he’s been caught in the deadlights all over again as both Myra and Eddie glance at him. 

“I was gonna show you New York,” Eddie elaborates, his tone begging Richie to _just go with it_. 

Before Richie can decide how to play this, Myra says, “It’s a long drive for me to make by myself, Eddie.”

“You’ve done it before, Myra,” Eddie says. The way they say each other’s names, Richie notices, is so unique to unhappy married couples. They make them sound like swearwords. 

“It’s fine,” Richie says, his voice cracking. “You can go, dude.” He ignores Eddie’s look of betrayal because—really—he’s not about to get in the middle of this, and adds, “I’ve done New York. I lived here for a while. I should show _you_ around.”

“Okay,” Eddie says and he lets out a laugh. “I guess Richie is going to show _me_ New York.”

Richie almost can’t believe the boldness. He would enjoy watching it if it wasn’t also the most uncomfortable he’s ever been in his life. 

Myra crosses her arms. “So, you’re not coming?” 

“No,” Eddie says. “Sorry. Give my best to Liz.” 

As she turns away, she mutters, “I’m sure you’re happy to get out of going.” 

And, okay. Richie’s been trying his best not to judge, because it’s really not his fucking place and he is the farthest thing from a neutral arbiter, but… these two? Really? It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t seem like a marriage that’s gone stale; it seems spoiled from the start. (And, for what it’s worth, it seems Eddie will do anything to avoid sleeping with her. The couch? Really? It’s a big bed. It looks comfy. Richie’s seen it.) Was there ever a spark here? Richie can’t imagine it. But maybe he’s being selfish. He doesn’t want to think of Eddie’s eyes sparking with anyone else. (As if Richie’s so fucking special.) 

As he watches the love of his life exchange terse words with his wife, Richie is hit with a realization that should have been obvious in retrospect.

He can only ever know what Eddie is like around him. He supposes that applies to everyone he’s ever known and will ever know, but he’s only left feeling unmoored by the thought of applying that to Eddie. Does he really _know_ Eddie? At all? If he can’t imagine Eddie being _in love with his wife_ , then what does that say about how well Richie knows him?

And maybe Richie is the problem. He can never know Eddie because he can only ever know him through the lens of himself. And does his proximity warp Eddie in some way? Like a magnet fucking with his internal compass? Does he get angry or loud or mean or distant? Does he smile more? 

But Eddie’s presence warps Richie just as much. He bends around him, light around a black hole or some shit—and once Myra is out the door, Eddie looks at him with a chagrined smile. As soon as Richie meets Eddie’s eyes and smiles back at him, he thinks: _No. I know him_. 

They go to the Met. It’s Eddie’s idea, shyly suggested, and Richie says, “Oh, I love touristy shit,” which may not have been the reaction Eddie was looking for, since he frowns. While they take the train into Manhattan, Richie says, “I wish I had one of those ‘I heart New York’ shirts. Khaki shorts. Maybe a fanny pack.” Eddie sighs deeply.

Richie doesn’t let up on his teasing while they meander through the exhibit halls. He reads the descriptive plaques to Eddie in different voices until Eddie starts pretending like he doesn’t know him and walks across the gallery to look at another piece. 

“Oh, baby, don’t be like that.” Richie chases him down and loops an arm around his waist. “Don’t withhold affection.” 

“It’s the only thing that gets through to you,” Eddie grumbles.

But there’s humor under his grumpy front, the corners of his mouth quirking into a smile. Richie is an aficionado at teasing Eddie and he can—usually—tell when it’s enjoyed and when he’s taking it too far. But he can’t pretend it’s all for Eddie’s benefit. Richie learned a long time ago that joking is the best way to get a taste of what he wants with the safety net of plausible deniability. So, if he rests his hands on Eddie’s shoulders and presses close to whisper-read in his ear (“a superlative example of the confluence between the handmade and the machine-made”), as long as Eddie laughs and shrugs him off, he hasn’t given anything away. 

In the end, Richie’s antics don’t benefit him much either. As soon as he leaves Eddie’s orbit, the bubbly warmth of contact is replaced with the cold-sweat of shame. He’s too aware of his own actions and motives, and he always has been, even as a kid. He knows he needs to protect himself better, put up some walls. But he can’t fucking help it, he’s like a moth to flame. 

After they exhaust the indoor exhibits, they head up to the rooftop garden. There’s a nip of fall on the late summer breeze, enough to temper the bright warmth of the sun. The two of them stand side-by-side seriously assessing the installation nestled in the corner, the New York skyline serving as its backdrop.

It’s a small Victorian house built of worn, rust-red planks of wood, arched windows framed with peeling white paint and an angular shingled roof. 

“It’s the house from _Psycho_ ,” Eddie comments.

Richie wrestles his museum map and brochure from his pocket and clears his throat to read with gravitas: “‘Simultaneously authentic and illusory, PsychoBarn evokes the psychological associations embedded in architectural spaces.’” He pauses to stuff the pamphlet back into his pocket and crosses his arms. “Ben would probably be into this. Are you getting anything?” 

“Um.” Eddie crosses his arms too, and seems to give it genuine thought, which Richie finds charming. “Well, it’s built from a red barn. It evokes, you know, middle America, wholesomeness. Mixed with Victorian Gothic architecture, an icon of horror. And, I heard this somewhere, it’s interesting, starting during the Great Depression, these Victorian mansions—sort of the ‘McMansion’ of their time—became the classic American ‘haunted house.’ It’s not really that they look objectively creepy, it’s more about the connotation of ruined wealth… Decay.”

Richie stares at him for a second before he bursts into laughter. 

Heads turn toward the noise and Eddie’s face reddens. “Shut up.” 

Eddie stalks off across the roof as Richie follows him, apologizing but still laughing. “No, no, I just didn’t realize I was in the presence of an art critic.” 

“Fuck off.” 

Richie settles next to him, leaning against the railing and looking out over the city. “Tell me more, please.” 

Eddie says, “I fucking hate you,” but he’s smiling faintly. 

“Did you study in advance for this?” 

“No, dude, I’m just, like…” Eddie sighs deeply. “I think it’s about… facades.” He turns back to the house and Richie follows his gaze. From this angle, the back of the house is visible and it’s nothing but scaffolding. “And… contrast.” Eddie shrugs. “I dunno.” 

“No, no,” Richie encourages, trying his best to keep his face straight even though this makes him want to smile like crazy. “It’s cool.” 

Eddie sighs again, like he thinks Richie is just humoring him. But he says, “It contrasts both with itself and against the skyline. It combines the ideal image of American life with the… dark side.” 

Richie nods. “Yeah, I can see that. So, do you want me to like, buy it for you?” 

Eddie snaps his head back to look at him, mouth twisted as he fights a smile. “You’re such a dick.” 

“I’m not!” Richie protests. “If you like it so much, maybe there’s someone I can bribe around here. We can come back in the night and disassemble it and carry it out, board by board.” 

Richie reels around, making a show of looking for a security guard as he grabs out his wallet. Eddie’s hand is on his arm, yanking him away. “I can’t take you anywhere.” 

Once they leave the Met, Eddie leads them on a several block walk through the Upper East Side in the direction of his favorite restaurant. Eddie walks fast and barely abides traffic signals, and Richie scrambles after him.

“It’s Italian,” Eddie promises, pausing briefly at an intersection to let Richie catch up to him. “I had mussels there once… White wine and cream sauce, I think. Really good.” 

“You eat shellfish?” 

“I eat shellfish sometimes.” Eddie starts walking again before Richie has managed to extricate himself from a herd of dawdling tourists. 

“You’re too fast,” Richie complains. “It’s because you’re little, you can slip through the crowd more easily.” 

“First of all, I’m not that little, I’m average height–” 

The ‘second of all’ is lost to Richie as Eddie builds his lead again. 

When they arrive outside of a black-awninged brick building, Eddie looks up at the sign in confusion. It’s definitely not Italian. Unless it’s Italian sushi. 

“I thought it was…” Eddie pulls out his phone and frowns at it for a minute, fingers tapping. Then he looks back at Richie, apologetically. “I guess it closed.”

“Oh, bummer.”

A guilty smile tugs at Eddie’s lips. “Apparently… three years ago.”

Richie barks a laugh. “And this is your favorite restaurant?” 

“Look, I don’t… exactly… get out much.” 

“Yeah, I’ll say.” Richie stands with his hands in his jacket pockets and blows a breath out through his lips. “There’s a place I like nearby.” 

Thirty minutes later they’re sitting in front of steaming bowls of ramen at a tiny table with nowhere near enough knee room for the both of them. But they negotiated their territory when they first sat down, so one of Eddie’s feet is planted between Richie’s and when they bump their legs together, neither acknowledge it. 

It takes Eddie a minute to get the hang of the chopsticks and when Richie starts flagging down the waitress for a fork, he threatens, “I’ll stab you with that fork.” 

Richie enjoys the simple act of sitting across from Eddie, the opportunity to study his face without reservation. His straight nose and low brows and resting scowl face. His wide, flat chin. The dart of his tongue between his lips after he takes a drink of water. His smiles are usually restrained and close-lipped, cheeks tight and dimpled. (Richie is on a personal mission to see Eddie’s teeth as often as possible, which he can usually accomplish by making him laugh. His smile when he laughs is brighter, looser. The control slips for a moment and it’s like the sun burning through clouds.) The scar on the hollow of his left cheek brings some pleasing asymmetry to his smile, one corner of his mouth lower than the other.

Richie thinks everything about him is attractive. Love is so fucking stupid. It’s stupid, but it makes him want to write poetry. 

( _Ha_. Wouldn’t he make a shitty poet.)

Richie stops being sappy and returns to Operation See Eddie’s Teeth. He lifts his bowl to take a loud slurp of broth and lets his eyes roll back in bliss. “This broth is amazing. The secret is pig’s feet, Eds. Trotters.” He prances his hands on the table to illustrate, knuckles clunking. 

Eddie fights a smile, lips pressed together and dimples deepening. “You’re so loud.”

“This is literally how you’re supposed to eat ramen. It’s like, you gotta waft it. Right?” Richie takes another slurp, but he overdoes it and ends up getting some into his windpipe. As Richie wheezes into his elbow, eyes watering, Eddie cackles, finally, and says, “How’s that going for you?”

Richie, still coughing, basks in Eddie’s bright, open-mouthed smile and crinkled eyes. (Mission accomplished.)

Then, realizing they’ve caused enough of a scene, they both settle down for a while, heads bent over their bowls. 

While Richie bites off a mouthful of noodles and lets them fall back into the bowl, he notices Eddie is stirring his own ramen, his eyes distant. “What’s up?” Richie asks as he chews. “Penny for your thoughts?” 

Eddie starts, hesitantly, “How are you doing, Richie? I mean, since we got back.”

“After-Derry?” Richie adds, grinning. “One month A.D.?”

Eddie doesn’t give him much credit for that one, face still serious. “Yeah.” 

So Richie gets serious, too. He can be serious. He considers the question as he takes another big bite of noodles. He hasn’t had a deadlights nightmare since he’s been staying with Eddie and Myra—thank god. He still doesn’t know whether he screams out loud during them, but he has woken up with a sore throat before. While it’s on his mind, he glances down at his hands, stretches them out. They look normal. He reads a couple words off the drink menu that’s propped up between them. Yep, everything’s real. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “It’s weird… going back. That’s part of the reason why I’m here. I couldn’t just go back to my old life like nothing changed, I didn’t… feel the same.” 

Eddie stiffens. “Okay, well. Must be nice to have a job where you can fuck off to another city for a month because you feel like it.” 

“Whoa, I wasn’t…” Richie rears his head back, eyes wide. “Where’s this coming from?” 

“Nowhere. Nothing.” Eddie looks back to his bowl, the anger already faded, lips now pursed in embarrassment. 

Richie takes a guess. “Do you kinda hate your job?” 

“No, no, I was just…” Eddie sighs. “Forget it.” 

“Okay. It’s forgotten.” Richie waves a hand in front of his unfocused eyes, to really emphasize the emptiness of his head, but it doesn’t get a laugh.

So, he reaches across the table with his chopsticks to snatch a fish cake from Eddie’s bowl, but it drops to the table with a wet splat. Richie grabs it with his fingers instead and pops it in his mouth. That move gets Eddie lighting up with a brighter kind of anger as he scolds Richie for being gross and _do you know how dirty restaurant tables are?_ Richie just smiles and basks in it.

Once they’re back home—Eddie and Myra’s home, Richie makes a point to correct, even in his own head—they watch a movie. Well, first they spend a good hour scrolling through Netflix and arguing about which movie to watch. Finally they settle on a movie they’ve each seen many times. 

While it starts, Richie counts on his fingers how many hours they’ve spent together today. Including last night, after work, they’ve had eighteen or nineteen hours together; and Richie doesn’t feel restless or fatigued or like he’s performance-drained and needs to recharge in order to get a smile back on his face. With Eddie the smile is never self-conscious, never an effort. It’s just… there. He doesn’t even feel it.

The past twenty years, Richie has had a hard time being with people. Part of it is his disingenuous public persona, a barrier between him and nearly everyone he meets. But even before that, he didn’t feel a connection like this in a long time. Like the smile on someone else’s face tugs the corners of his own mouth; like he feels his own skin more vividly, touching and being touched. When Richie left Derry, he began enforcing his own internal barrier long before he found an external one. 

When Myra comes back, Ferris Bueller is singing in the shower. Eddie clicks the volume down a couple notches and cranes his head to peer toward the kitchen. “How’s Liz?” 

She stands in the doorway looking at the two of them sitting on the couch, bare feet up on the ottoman, and at the TV screen (“Bueller? Bueller?”) and back again. “Good,” she answers shortly. 

“We, uh, went to the Met,” Eddie says, glancing at Richie like he wants him to back him up. “And then we had dinner. Ramen.” 

There’s something about the way Eddie says it that makes it seem like a lie, even though it’s true.

Richie nods slowly. “Yup.”

Myra lingers by the couch for another moment, hands clasped together in front of her, before she says, “Well. I’m going to–” She takes a few steps toward the hallway. “Keep the volume down. And don’t stay up too late, Eddie.” 

“Goodnight,” Eddie calls after her, both pointed and absent. Pointedly absent, Richie thinks. 

Richie lolls his head against the cushions to look over at him, but Eddie keeps his gaze fixed on the TV. He wants to ask, _Are you always this much of a dick to your wife? Or is this because of my presence? Or for my benefit?_

He wants to ask, _Are you happy, Eddie?_

But he doesn’t. Because a selfish part of him wants the answer to be _No_ , and that’s a part he can’t feed. 

Instead, he says, “I tried the clammy hands trick with my parents once.” Eddie snorts and turns to look at him, and Richie tells the story. 

Richie sits in the murky water of the quarry and cleans his glasses. He can still taste the metallic tang of Eddie’s blood on his lips no matter how he tries to wash it away. Maybe he’ll taste it forever, he thinks, some kind of phantom sense memory, haunting him.

His friends are spread out, points of a star around him, washing themselves and sending rippling rings across the placid surface of the quarry. They begin to talk about Eddie. _He would hate this… Cleaning ourselves with dirty water_. They’re fond and sad but so calm, like a memory already healed by the years, but to Richie the wound is hot and fresh and feels like it always will be. He looks at the way the blood—Eddie’s blood—runs in the cracks of his shattered glasses, and he begins to sob in exhausted, exhausting heaves. 

As his friends circle him, slowly move toward him through the water, Richie wakes up. That’s usually when he wakes up. 

It’s always a jolt awake, leading with confusion and terror before he settles into momentary relief— _not real, not real, not real_ —and a frustrating, aimless grief. 

His muscles are tense and he tries to relax them, stretching his fingers and toes. The sheets are damp and cold and tangled around his legs. He brings a hand to his face to wipe away the drying tears on his cheeks and neck. 

“I don’t wanna do this anymore,” he whispers desperately, feeling a few hot tears leak from his eyes. He pulls his hand away and looks at it, stretches his fingers. _Not a dream_. 

Of course he knows that already and the reality checks feel pointless but he keeps doing them anyway, clinging to this last hope.

Richie takes a shower and emerges for breakfast. Eddie is already sitting at the kitchen table, damp hair and fresh clothes, looking at his cell phone with a mug of coffee in front of him. Myra is making eggs and turkey bacon and a fruit salad. 

“Good morning.” Richie gives a pleasant smile to each of them as he approaches the Keurig, maneuvering around Myra who seems just as jazzed to see him as usual. She huffs and moves out of his way, holding her arms up to her chest and away from him in an almost-defensive stance. Richie is not surprised by this behavior anymore, although he wonders if Eddie is picking up on it. 

He must be, right? Either that or he’s in the running for worst husband of the year. 

Richie gets his coffee and sneaks past Myra again—and she flinches away from him again—and sits beside Eddie at the kitchen table. 

“Plans for the day, Eds?”

Eddie thinks for a moment, pursing his lips. “Not much. I might go to the gym later or knock out some prep for a meeting on Tuesday. You?”

Richie breathes in long and deep through his nose, before saying all in a rush, “Finish writing my show for tomorrow, run it a few times so I can maybe have it memorized, and I might check out the venue if I have time.” 

“Busy day,” Eddie comments. 

Myra serves breakfast then, and after she sets down their plates, she brings a handful of vitamins and pills and half a glass of orange juice for Eddie. They sit on the table between them until Eddie is done with his meal, and once again, he dutifully takes them.

After they eat, Myra cleans up and says, “I’m going to get started on laundry. Do you have anything white for the wash? Undershirts?”

Eddie glances up, thinking. “Yeah, I put them in the hamper.” 

“Okay.” Then Myra brings a white paper bag, stapled on top, to the table. She sets it down in front of Eddie. “I got your prescription refilled—finally—and picked it up yesterday. I had to make up an excuse for why you lost the first one, and I had a terrible time trying to get the replacement covered. Please be more careful with this one, okay?”

“Oh.” Eddie stares at it, his face hard to read. His jaw is tense. “Uh, thanks.” 

Myra leaves with a parting pat on Eddie’s shoulder; she disappears to the laundry room, just around the corner. The prescription bag sits between them on the table for a long minute. Then Eddie reaches for it. He rips the staples out and removes—of course—an inhaler. He makes a sound in the back of his throat that’s not exactly a laugh. His expression is still guarded, mouth tight and brow furrowed. 

Richie laughs tensely and says, “It’s just like being back home with Mrs. K., huh?” 

Eddie doesn’t laugh. He looks back at Richie, mouth and brow-line straight and humorless. “What the fuck, Richie?”

Richie feels cold sweat prick under his arms, the familiar sensation of having said the wrong thing. “I’m just joking–” 

“No, seriously, what the fuck?” 

It’s loud enough that Richie recoils. Eddie slams his laptop shut and shoves away from the table. In a few stalking steps, he’s by the front door, and there’s a jingle of keys as he grabs them from the hook. The door swings open and shut. 

Richie calls weakly after him, “Well, do you want me to answer you…?” 

He hears Eddie’s car fire up in the driveway.

Myra pokes her head out of the laundry room, obviously having heard Eddie’s outburst, eyes wide. Then she narrows her gaze at Richie. Richie stares back, his own eyes widening as Myra approaches the kitchen table, pulls out a chair and takes a seat across from him.

After a moment too long of awkward silence, he says, “Hey…” 

She asks, “What happened in Maine?”

“Uh.” Richie blinks, feeling slow and stupid. If he was a cartoon character he might have audibly gulped. That’s the only thought going through his dumb, empty brain, and it’s not helping him answer the question. 

“I’m not stupid, you know,” Myra says, crossing her arms. It’s a guarded gesture, and she can’t quite meet his eye. This isn’t easy for her. An act of humility. She must really be worried if she’s going to Richie. “I know something happened, something he’s not telling me. He’s been so…” She pauses and raises a hand to blot under one eye, delicately with the tips of her fingers. “And he just– he just took off, he packed his bags, and he didn’t _tell_ me where he was going– and he comes back with his face bandaged and bloody and he tells me he slipped in the bathroom, as if I’d believe that–”

“Eddie can be kinda hard to get a read on, sometimes,” Richie says. There’s a twinge of sympathy in his heart; Eddie Kaspbrak isn’t the easiest person to love. “He’s a… private person.” 

In the face of Richie’s attempted empathy, Myra glowers at him, letting the tears collect in her eyes. “I’m his _wife_ ,” she says, finally. “Who are you?” And it’s all she needs to say to get Richie to snap his mouth shut, feeling like he’s been socked in the gut. She stands up from the table and returns to the laundry room. 

**iii.**

On his way through New York, Eddie drives aggressively, impatiently, cutting in and out of traffic, and laying on his horn at the slightest provocation. He’s not even sure why he’s so angry. But at least, on the roads, he’s in good company. 

On the highway, leaving the city, traffic clears and Eddie mellows out enough to think, and, okay, he knows why. 

What Richie said set him off because it hit on something true. Something that Eddie has known for a long time but hoped that no one else would see because someone else seeing it made it real. And _Richie_ seeing it…

The thought makes his grip tighten on the steering wheel. 

He knows Myra is a lot like his mother. But what’s worse is, she’s his mother if Eddie chose it. Myra never made him think he was sick and she never gave him fake prescriptions; all she did was take Eddie as he came to her. Eddie asked without speaking to be taken care of, and Myra, a nurse by trade and a woman who would’ve liked to have been married a long time ago, really needed someone to take care of. She stopped working after they were married, Eddie’s income more than enough to support the two of them, and she took care of him instead.

And God, it was _easy_. Eddie hadn’t felt his heart race with fear or excitement in years, he hadn’t even felt the stress of a big decision in a long time. Everything had been taken care of for him, he had been taken care of, and he chose that. He didn’t schedule his own doctor appointments or haircuts. He didn’t buy his own clothes or cook his own food. He wasn’t happy but he was _safe_ , and at some point he decided the latter was more important to him. 

Richie said he was brave. But Richie hasn’t seen Eddie for nearly thirty years. What the hell does he know? 

Eddie liked who he was in Derry, both times. Someone who thought for himself and took action, and fought beside his friends and would have died for them. Someone with so much room in his heart. That’s the version of himself he wants Richie to remember. Now Richie has seen who he really is, seen that Eddie isn't happy in his life but is too pathetic to do anything about it. Richie wouldn’t say that to him now.

“I don’t… like who I am,” Eddie says quietly to himself and it’s true and sharp enough to cut him. Sometimes Eddie thinks he’s the worst type of person. Small and scared and mean; a person who’s vindictive and petty and who lashes out because he doesn’t want anyone to know and who pushes away the people he cares about. 

And he cares about Richie. So much that it makes him feel like he’s losing his grip on reality. He cares what Richie thinks of him—obviously—and what Richie’s doing when he’s not with him, and what Richie might say if he was. When he sees Richie for the first time in the morning or in the evening after work, it’s like his breathing evens, slows—like his fucking inhaler, isn’t that fitting—and he feels calmer, like the world isn’t burning down around him, like he isn’t… wasting time. 

And what a valuable thing that is. To find someone who makes you feel like you’re not wasting time. 

But Richie also makes him angrier than any other person on the planet. Sometimes Eddie loves that, even if he’d never admit it. Richie knows him well enough to royally piss him off, and he treats it like an art form. Other times, Eddie hates it. And this is one of those other times. 

Mostly, it makes him feel stupid. Why does he care so much what Richie thinks? 

_You know why_ , he taunts himself. He drives for another hour before he turns around. 

When Eddie gets back home, he parks in the driveway and runs inside, expecting to see Richie sitting on the couch or at the kitchen table. Instead, he sees his wife swiffering the floor. She glances up at his dramatic entrance, eyebrows raised.

“He left,” she says. Her tone is bitter. “Shortly after you did.”

“Oh, I wasn’t–” _looking for him_ , dies in his throat when Myra gives him a withering look. 

“What happened in Maine?”

“What? I–” Eddie, caught wrong-footed, places his hands on his hips. “I already told you.”

When Myra continues, her words seem rehearsed. “You told me that an old friend died and you had to go home for the funeral. But you didn’t tell me this until you had already _left_ , Eddie. When you packed your bags, you wouldn’t tell me _anything_. And when you came back, you told me that you slipped and fell in a bathroom, and you thought I would believe any of that–”

“It was the… the corner of the bathroom counter…” Eddie is stumbling over his words now, and he knows the lies are sloppy and not up to his usual standard, but in this case an obvious lie is still better than the truth. 

Myra keeps advancing toward him, armed with the swiffer, and she demands, “And who is this man?”

“Richie? What do you mean? He’s an old friend. I _told_ you–”

“He needs to leave.”

“Myra–”

“He needs to leave,” she says again and there’s an icy, unmovable glint in her eye that freezes his spine and calls up the ghost of Sonia Kaspbrak. “He’s not good for you.” She’s softened already, fast enough for Eddie to doubt what he saw. “Look, you’re upset. He makes you upset. You’re not talking to me. Liz looked him up and found an article that said he had a meltdown on stage in Chicago a month ago and cancelled his tour dates. He’s not a stable individual. He’s taking advantage of–”

Eddie’s mind swirls with a number of questions and rebuttals—Myra tends to have a ‘shock and awe’ argument style—but he quickly settles on one point. “You told Liz about this?”

“Of course I did. She’s my _sister_. You never want me to have anyone to talk to–”

“I didn’t– He’s not– He’s my _friend_ , okay?” 

God, it feels so childish to say that Eddie might as well stomp his foot. He’s thirteen and he’s standing his ground in the kitchen, arm encased in a plaster cast, fighting with his mother because she’s trying to keep him from his friends and she doesn’t understand, she doesn’t _understand_. 

Myra watches his face for a long moment before she says, with finality, “This isn’t normal. I said one week and it’s been one week. He needs to leave.”

“It’ll be a week on Tuesday,” Eddie mutters, because he’s pedantic. He can always be pedantic. 

And she sighs, frustrated but resigned to it. There are some ways that she isn’t like his mother after all. “Fine. Tuesday.”

It’s late when Richie finally does return. Eddie did end up going to the gym today, tried unsuccessfully to burn off some nervous energy. He was equally unsuccessful at trying to get some work done. Now, he’s lying on the couch in the dark, wide awake and staring at the ceiling. He hears the spare key turn in the lock, then Richie step inside, and the thud of his shoes when he drops them on the mat by the door.

Eddie sits up on his elbows as Richie tries to sneak past and they meet the whites of each other’s eyes in the dark. Richie freezes. 

“Hey,” Richie says.

“Hey,” Eddie says. 

Richie takes a few uncertain steps toward him. “Look, I’m–” 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie interrupts. 

Richie’s shoulders relax. “No, _I’m_ sorry. I really… I was being a dick, so. I shouldn’t have… said that.” 

Eddie shrugs and sits up on the couch, creating a spot for Richie. “Well. I kinda flipped out.”

Richie moves slowly to sit down beside him. There are several seconds of silence before he says, just as slowly, “How _are_ you? Eddie? You asked me, but…” 

Eddie breathes in deeply and lets it out in a shaky stream. “It’s just… my mom. I didn’t really remember. Not all of it, until I went back. You know, she had me on fake prescriptions. She told me I was fragile, and she… I never had asthma.” 

“I know.” 

“But it has some kind of pull on me, still,” Eddie says. His hands are trembling so he grasps them together on his lap. “I wish I could leave it behind. We killed It, why can’t I leave it behind?”

“I don’t know if you can,” Richie says quietly. 

Eddie snorts a dejected laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, not… _you_ , specifically. I mean, take it from someone who moved all the way across the country as soon as he could. Derry goes with you.”

“That’s depressing.” Eddie drops his head back against the couch, sinking into the cushions. “Are we gonna be fucked up forever?”

“Well, yeah,” Richie says, matter-of-factly enough that Eddie laughs. “But everyone is. We’re not _special_.” 

Eddie smiles lazily, feels the pull in his left cheek. He lifts a hand to touch the scar, the taut skin. “Yeah, I guess not.”

Eddie can feel Richie’s eyes on him so he lowers his hand and turns his head. 

Richie opens his mouth, inhales sharply. “Eddie. Are you…” 

When he trails off, Eddie sits up straighter, turning toward him. “What?”

Richie is quiet for another moment, eyes unfocused. Then he shakes his head and sharpens his gaze and says, “You’re coming to my show tomorrow night, right?”

Eddie nods. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Richie smiles and stands up from the couch. “I gotta get to sleep. Goodnight.”

Eddie echoes it as Richie disappears down the dark hallway. He stays sitting up for a few minutes, listening to Richie in the bathroom then getting settled into bed. Finally, he lays back on the couch, still wide awake, Richie’s words running through his head.

 _Derry goes with you_.

He wonders what’s been following Richie all these years. 

On Monday night, Eddie goes to Richie’s show. It’s at a comedy club in Brooklyn. There’s no marquee, but Eddie lingers by a poster on the wall outside. RICHIE TOZIER in all caps, above a picture of him, arms crossed, smirking at the camera. Eddie can’t help but imagine Richie posing for this photo, eyebrows quirked, and the way his face would have relaxed after the flash went off, falling into a more natural smile. He probably thanked the photographer and made a self-deprecating joke when he saw the result. 

Eddie thinks briefly about all the small connections Richie must have had over the years. Agents, managers, journalists he got drinks with, fellow comedians and collaborators. Deeper connections, too. Friends, roommates, a few girlfriends. People who got to know Richie at twenty and twenty-five and thirty and thirty-five. He wonders how Richie spent all of those birthdays and Christmases and New Year’s Eves, and Eddie feels an acute sense of loss. 

They lost a lot of time. 

The thought leaves him shaky on his feet. He doesn’t imagine how his life would be different if Richie had stayed in it—that squirming feeling is best left in the dark—but he thinks that whatever happiness he finds now will always carry the tang of regret, bitter on the back of his tongue. 

Eddie pulls himself away and heads inside. The place has an almost-claustrophobically low ceiling and there are no fewer than forty taps on the wall behind the bar. He chooses a beer at random and starts squinting around the dimly lit club until he recognizes Kristen from her curly head of hair. She’s sitting with someone else at a table off to the side of the small stage.

Eddie approaches and is briefly introduced to Theo, a lanky guy with a dark, thick beard, wearing glasses and a beanie. Eddie is glad for his presence because for the next several minutes before the show starts, he can mostly sit back and listen to their conversation without having to input much. 

When Richie takes the stage, it feels surreal watching him. Richie starts with some crowd work and gets in a back and forth with a guy at the table directly in front of the stage. (“I’ve learned this about people who sit up front,” he says. “You want me to pick on you, you get off on it. It’s not fun for me anymore. You show up wearing the worst t-shirt you could find at Goodwill or in a dumpster or whatever and you just vibrate in your seat until I notice you. So, no, I’m not going to bite, Mr. ‘Staten Island Squirrels Are Sexy.’ Who let you on the ferry?”) Richie looks like he belongs up there and Eddie feels proud of him, though maybe he’d never say it in as many words. Eddie thinks about all the broken glasses and bloody noses Richie earned running his mouth back home, and feels vindicated on his behalf that he’s now earning his living this way.

“I'm in New York for a few weeks,” Richie says to begin the meat of his set. “I'm staying with a friend who lives here. He works on Wall Street. I mean, I think he does, his job confuses me. I can’t believe there are people who have real jobs. Like, in office buildings. They wear ties. This friend, I’ll ask him how work is going and he’ll say–,” He holds up a hand to gesticulate, eyes going wide and wild, and Eddie recognizes his own mannerisms with a start, “–John accidentally cc’d a client on an internal email. Tim is so annoying, he replies-all to every single department-wide email just to say ‘Ok.’ And Karen keeps asking me to cc her and it feels like she’s micromanaging me. And I'll be like… Do you have any stories that aren’t about emails?”

There’s a wave of laughter from the crowd and Eddie laughs, too, relaxing. Richie catches his eye from stage and winks at him before he continues.

“I love it. It’s an entirely different world. I’ve never had a real job, so it’s fascinating to me. I swear, until, like, five years ago, I thought bcc and cc were where you put the second and third email address you want to send the email to. I thought you could only send an email to three people! Max! My mom was probably wondering why I was blind-copying her on emails about family Christmas.” He wiggles his shoulders and says in a very suburban-mom voice: “Are we surprising your father?” 

Eddie chuckles again, along with the rest of the audience, and notes that Richie has a good sense of flow, orchestrating the rise and fall of energy from the crowd.

“I think we’ve all gotten to know each other pretty well by now, so here’s a confession,” Richie says. “If you know me from my work for the past ten-or-so years, you’re not a fan of me as much as you are a fan of a rotating team of uncredited comedy writers. Yeah. I worked with a writing team for a long time. I wasn’t really trying to hide it, but it’s not the type of thing you advertise either.” He waves a hand through the air as he says, “Middle-aged man tells other people’s jokes. It’s a ventriloquist act if the dummy had a receding hairline and anxiety. But tonight, there’s no hand up my ass controlling my mouth. Tonight, baby, this is _all_ me.”

There are a couple high-pitched ‘ _Ooh_ ’s from women in the audience; Richie makes a face.

“I’m realizing maybe I should have saved that reveal for the end of the show, so I can see how this goes. But hey, I’m new at this, give me a break. I’m still figuring out what kind of stand-up comic I’m gonna be. It’s so exciting. So many possibilities. Maybe I’ll be ‘politically incorrect’ and get protested at college campuses. Or maybe I’ll do ironic little musical numbers...” On cue, the stage lights focus into a spotlight and there’s a flourish of music. Richie straightens his posture and clears his throat into the microphone. He draws in a deep breath, then– the lights return to normal. “Can you _imagine?_ The only thing worse than stand-up comedy is musical theater. What fucking genius thought, let’s combine the two? Or maybe I’ll start wearing a suit on stage so people take me seriously. Put on a fake 1940s newscaster voice and pretend that’s just _how I talk_. Or maybe I’ll spend ninety-percent of my set sitting on a stool yelling at the audience, who knows!” Richie pauses. “That last one was a Marc Maron roast, I want to make that _very_ clear. Can _not_ let that one go over your heads.”

Some segments of the audience burst into raucous laughter at that; Richie cuts them off to say, “Oh, it’s _fine_. Calm down. We’re friends! We hate each other, but we’re friends. While we’re on the topic, I’ve always hated guys that treat stand-up comedy like therapy. It’s annoying and boring and narcissistic.” Richie pauses, his face serious, before he grins and adds, “But so am I!” 

Richie smiles along with the crowd’s laughter and brief applause as he walks across the stage. 

“My favorite thing about the relentless march of time is stuff that seems like a really big deal, later on, you realize it didn’t matter _at all_. That is the best feeling in life. When you’re a kid, everything is the biggest deal ever because you have no frame of reference. Stub your toe? Worst pain you’ve ever felt, literally. Although that’s a bad example because stubbing your toe is actually the most painful human experience. I think it goes…” He counts them off on his fingers: “Stubbing your toe, childbirth, breaking your femur, in that order. Anyway. Childhood is… weird, right? What’s up with that? The weirdest part is probably…” 

He takes a long pause, milking it as he leans on the microphone stand, looking like he’s deep in thought. 

“That bloodthirsty monster that torments you and your friends by shapeshifting into your darkest fears.” 

There are a few surprised laughs from the audience. 

“Or was that just me? Sorry, I meant, uh… puberty? Squeaky voice, awkward boners… There, is that _hashtag relatable_ enough for you? Are you feeling _seen_ by a comedian? Okay, back to the monster. With the other kids, it was like, what are you afraid of? Spiders? Okay, easy–,” He snaps his fingers, “–giant spider. The mummy in that new movie? Great, here’s a mummy. Disease, death and decay? Alright, a little more abstract but I do have a leper in my repertoire. Then it got to me, like, what are you afraid of, Richie? It asked me this, which was thoughtful—not enough monsters read Emily Post these days—and I said, oh, I dunno, like, rejection, isolation, the sinking feeling that if your friends and family ever really knew you they wouldn’t love you anymore. And the monster was like… okay, I dunno, a fucking clown?”

This bit gets the most sustained laughter so far, which would surprise Eddie—if he wasn’t busy laughing himself nearly breathless.

Richie doesn’t pause for long, riding the wave of energy as he continues, “And thirteen-year-old me, who had come to believe his only value was his ability to make people laugh, was like… Well played. Game recognize game. I’m kicking that around for my next tour title, by the way: Sad Clown. Is that too on the nose? Although I’ve never been much one for subtlety. ‘Brevity is the soul of wit?’ Okay, Shakespeare, I fucked your mom. Put _that_ in your sticking place.”

Richie collects himself for a moment, letting the theater fall into a comfortable silence, before he continues.

“I think a lot of people block out shit from their childhood. It’s a nice feeling sometimes. Someone from middle school will ask you, do you remember the time Mr. Schmidt yelled at you in pre-algebra and you cried in front of everyone? And you’ll say–,” His face lights up with a big smile, “No. No, I don’t. It makes your day, right? I watch _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ , and I’m like, I’ll have what _she’s_ having. It’s nice to forget. For instance, I blocked out the bullying so hard I almost forgot I was gay.” 

The few stray laughs are quickly eclipsed by uncomfortable murmuring. Eddie’s vision suddenly blurs around the edges and his ears are ringing. He’s not sure he heard right. 

Richie lingers in the audience reaction for a few moments before he chuckles and says, “You guys can’t tell whether or not that’s a joke. I love that.” He holds a hand up to clarify: “It _is_ a joke. But I _am_ gay.” 

Richie continues talking about working with his ghostwriters and how he never really thought of himself as ‘closeted,’ but maybe that’s the only word for a guy who makes jokes about a fictional girlfriend on stage in between unfulfilling hook-ups with men. “My writers used to give me a hard time about the fake girlfriend of it all,” he says. “Middle-aged comedian is too much of a dickish manchild to secure an actual girlfriend so we have to invent one for comedy purposes. And the thing is, the actual situation was even funnier. That they were, unknowingly, bearding for me. Wait, did I say funny? Sorry, I meant pathetic. My fake-girlfriend sort of hated me and I sort of hated her, as you know if you’ve heard any of my old material, but doesn’t that just add to the realism?” He sighs wistfully. “We had our ups and downs, but I miss her sometimes.” 

Eddie is listening, kind of, but mostly he’s zoning out, his mind somehow racing and entirely blank all at once. The rest of the audience is eating it up, the booming laughter beginning to grate on him. It feels tragic, almost cruel, he thinks, Richie revealing this personal and likely painful story, in an arena where he has to frame it for the amusement of others. And what’s worse, he thinks, is maybe this is the only way Richie knows how to do this, the only way he’s ever known: to paint a target on his own back. 

After, Eddie claps along with the rest of the audience and he looks at Kristen and Theo and smiles back at them, still too deep in his own head to really respond when they give their first few thoughts about Richie’s show. 

When the theater starts to clear, Richie emerges from backstage and makes his way toward their table, getting stopped a few times along the way to say, _Thanks for coming out_. Then he wrinkles his nose and laughs. _Or I guess I was the one who came out. Thanks for paying me money, I meant_. 

When he reaches Eddie (and Kristen and Theo), Eddie is definitely staring. There’s a part of his brain that can’t reconcile the Richie-on-stage and the Richie-his-friend. Kristen congratulates him and he laughs and reaches for Eddie’s half-full beer, neglected at some point during the show. (“I need some of this.”) 

That snaps Eddie out of it. “Hey, man. Great show.” 

Richie smiles as he puts Eddie’s drink back down. “Thanks. You were kind of an inspiration, obviously.” 

Eddie’s smile doesn’t feel natural so he knows it must look forced, too. He can’t stop thinking: _Richie is gay. He’s gay and he knew when we were kids—did he know when we were kids?—and he never told me, but now he told me—or did he just tell a roomful of strangers that I happened to be in? Was I supposed to know already? Am I supposed to react to this in some way? Or did he purposefully tell me in this way so that I wouldn’t have to acknowledge it if I didn’t want to? Is he hoping I’ll say something? Is he hoping I won’t?_

Kristen and Theo certainly aren’t commenting on that revelation ( _did they already know?_ ), and if there’s some unspoken understanding, Eddie doesn’t want to be the one to break it. Instead, Kristen says that she’s always wanted a Tozier-Maron feud and they laugh about that for a while. (“Is it a feud if he never acknowledges it? I’m just like, tugging on his sleeve like, ‘notice me, daddy.’”) It’s not too long until they leave the emptying bar and Eddie trails them out. 

On the street outside, Theo invites them to another bar, and Richie says, “Well, I know Eddie has to work in the morning, so we’ll probably head home.”

Eddie startles at the sudden mention. “I can go back by myself, it’s fine.” 

Richie frowns briefly before he pulls his expression back into a neutral smile. “Nah, I’m beat. That took a lot out of me. I’m dreaming of your guest bed.” 

The trip home is quiet, but maybe they have exhaustion as a cover. They sit across from each other on the train, Eddie staring out the window—with the interior lights on, that means he’s mostly staring at his own reflection—and Richie is hunched over his phone, scrolling absently. Eddie thinks about their last late-night commute, at the top of the weekend. Eddie remembers sitting too close to Richie and letting his head fall onto his shoulder, shutting his eyes against the bright overhead lights. Sure, Eddie was tired and had had a few more drinks than he planned to, but it was an act he could have dropped in a second. He remembers pretending for a stolen moment that it was real, that he didn’t need alcohol or exhaustion as an excuse to let his body do what it wanted. 

He remembers thinking, _It doesn’t matter anyway_. But now…

Eddie’s strong reaction to this news, that Richie is gay, is not lost on him. _But why?_ It doesn’t change anything about his relationship with Richie. It doesn’t change anything at all.

 _Except_ , some voice whispers before he can silence it, _now you know you might have a chance with him, and that makes it real and scary. Because you’re a coward and you can have your idle little fantasies but you can never actually take what you want._

Eddie looks away from the window and from his own reflected face to stare at the floor instead.

When they get back home, Richie hesitates for a moment before he says goodnight, like he might want to say something else, but he doesn’t. He disappears into the guest room. Eddie lingers in the hallway, frustrated with himself. But he doesn’t knock on the door and he doesn’t call Richie’s name. Instead he digs his fingernails into his palms, bites the inside of his cheek where the scar tissue is raised, and goes to bed—in his actual bed, next to his wife, for the first time in nearly a week. 

On Tuesday, Richie texts Eddie for lunch. Eddie lies and says he’s too swamped to get out of the office. He knows he needs to talk to Richie— _today_ —and tell him that he needs to move out. That conversation shouldn’t scare him as much as it does. Eddie will explain that it’s Myra, and Richie will laugh and tease him but he’ll understand, and the two of them can still spend time together for the rest of Richie’s stay in New York. It will be fine, he just needs to tell him. He could even tell him over text. He could tell him right now.

Eddie stares down at his phone and can’t even begin to compose the text. It’s a simple conversation, but it’s really fucking bad timing. Eddie can’t tell Richie to move out before he acknowledges the Big Thing that he just learned about Richie but he can’t do that without also acknowledging how awkward things have been between them since—but have things been awkward? Richie just texted him for lunch, like it’s any other day. Maybe Eddie is inventing all of the awkwardness on his end, constructing this barrier all on his own.

 _You always do this_ , Eddie thinks, gritting his teeth. _Just talk to him. It’s not hard. All you have to say is: Sorry I got weird. I should have said something. It was just you said you’re gay and it’s not a big deal, it’s cool, I just started overthinking it because I’ve always thought that I… might be… and I’d always hoped that… we…_

And that’s just the problem. Eddie missed his chance to casually acknowledge this and now he can’t explain his actions without showing his hand. 

Richie didn’t ask for any of this. Nothing he said was _about_ Eddie. It was about Richie’s career and his comedy and his public persona. Coming out publicly must be terrifying. Eddie can hardly get there in his own head. It’s some mental block he still can’t get around. It feels like, during the twenty-seven years in between, when he tried to recall the details of his childhood bedroom in Derry, or the name of a middle school teacher. A frustrating feeling like something on the tip of your tongue but you know you won’t remember it on your own. 

Richie is dealing with enough, and he doesn’t need to be the subject of Eddie’s messy feelings. And Eddie, lest he forget, is fucking _married_. He’s married—to, like, a woman—and Richie can’t read his mind, and there’s no way he factored into Richie’s thought process. 

Giving up, Eddie finally puts his phone away. He’ll talk to Richie tonight. In person. Which gives him—he glances at the clock—seven-ish hours to come up with what he’ll say. Okay. He can do that. 

When Eddie gets home, his shirt is pit-stained from all the anxiety, but he has a plan of what he’s going to say. Sort of. He might get lost somewhere in the middle—the bridge between ‘you need to move out’ and ‘it’s fine that you’re gay, by the way’ isn’t structurally sound—but he went over it again and again on his subway commute. 

But when he walks inside and sees Richie sitting at the kitchen table, packed suitcase beside him, the plan flies out the window. He doesn’t even take off his shoes as he approaches Richie. 

“Hey. What’s–?”

“Hey, man, thanks for letting me stay for so long, it was really generous of you and Myra, but it’s probably time I got out of your hair.” Richie smiles but it’s strained. Now Eddie is sure, at least, that the awkwardness isn’t one-sided. 

“Oh.” Eddie shifts his weight on his feet. “Did Myra… say something–?”

“No, she didn’t… but I… Yeah.” Richie sighs and stands up. “At least I won’t have to make this long-ass commute anymore. No offense. Oh, and I washed the sheets from the guest bed so that should be all taken care of. And, you know, let’s totally meet up again before I go back to L.A., okay? Dinner or… lunch or something. Thanks again.”

“Yeah, okay,” Eddie echoes hollowly as he follows Richie to the door. 

And Richie is gone before Eddie fully processes what happened.

That night, Eddie returns to the guest room. But he can’t sleep. Staring at the ceiling, watching the periodic light show from passing cars, he can’t stop thinking: _You should have said something. You still need to say something. You fucked this up. You always fuck everything up._

He got so used to having Richie around. The mundane, everyday things were made vivid by his presence. Riding the subway, shoulders bumping, and exchanging looks at overheard phone conversations; the feeling of knowing him and being known in return, communicating with only a look and a smile. Sitting across from each other at restaurants, Richie so bright and attentive and focusing all his energy on Eddie like a spotlight. Eddie has grown used to being invisible the past several years, blending in with the crowd. He’s an average guy, average looks, average height, boring job. When his coworkers asked him weekend plans he would be embarrassed to answer and mumble something vague. When was the last time someone really _looked_ at him? 

Richie is always looking at him. But it feels nothing like the suffocating surveillance he endured from his mom—and from Myra, to an extent. When Richie notices Eddie’s mood, he’ll ask how he’s doing, but it’s gentle and genuine. There’s never any overbearing concern that leaves Eddie downplaying it or immediate prescriptive advice that leaves Eddie regretting it. And Richie doesn’t pry. 

But the fucked up thing about Eddie is: sometimes he needs someone to pry. He wishes Richie would call him in the middle of the night or bust down the door to his room and demand to know what’s the matter with him. 

The thought makes him smile and he realizes, with some dread, that he misses Richie. Desperately. Even though it had only been a week, and even though they’ve only been back in each other’s lives for a month, it’s all Eddie knows now. It’s that kind of fast and reckless attachment you form in your youth, as intense as your stomach dropping on a roller coaster. Eddie didn’t think he would experience that again. 

Eddie rolls onto his side, adjusting his arm under the pillow. He turns his face into the sheets and, without thinking, smells them. Inhales deeply enough to nearly make his vision white-out. But he only gets the fresh, cold scent of laundry detergent. No lingering trace of Richie, that warm and lived-in smell he noticed when he rested his head on his shoulder on the train. And he feels… disappointed. Wishes Richie had been a less thoughtful houseguest and didn’t wash the sheets. 

And if there’s some line in the sand that makes this a problem—a real fucking catastrophe—that’s probably it.

Fully wallowing now, Eddie thinks about how often Richie touches him—a hand resting absently on his back or arm while they walk together, or the rougher touches when Richie jokes around, shoving his shoulder or ruffling his hair—and how it makes him feel warm, deep in his molten core. He can’t think of the last time he felt like that, his body reacting to touch that way. He doesn’t think he ever felt that way with Myra.

And that must have been part of the appeal in his relationship with her. His depth of feeling for Richie is scary, unstable, volatile. Eddie has shied away from danger for most of his life. It’s playing with fire to care this much. If the pain is proportional, it could kill him. 

But… He remembers when he broke his arm when he was thirteen. He screamed and it hurt like hell, but he remembers thinking, somewhere in his panic-addled mind: _Oh. Is that all?_

It didn’t kill him. And maybe, like getting a vaccination or blood drawn, it’s never as bad as you worry it’s going to be. 

So, maybe for the past twenty-seven years, he’s also kept himself sheltered from any real emotional pain. Maybe he’s overhyped heartbreak in his own head, made it into a mortal threat. 

Maybe he needs another fall to prove to himself that he can survive it. 

The following evening, Eddie’s routine is back to its numb stability. He gets home from work and Myra heats lasagna for them. They eat on the couch, in front of HGTV, something that they both enjoy. Usually. Or used to. Eddie can’t really focus on it right now. And _The Property Brothers_ might be too intertwined with his own personal baggage to assess it objectively. 

When they’re finished eating, Myra clears their dishes and returns to the couch a minute later. She settles down next to Eddie again. “How was your day?”

Eddie answers on autopilot: “It was fine.” He never complains about work to Myra. She doesn’t really listen. She jumps right to telling Eddie how to fix it, how simple the situation is, actually, if he would just do this, this and this… So he doesn’t tell her much about work anymore. He asks her, “How was your day?”

“It was good.” She smiles. “I’m glad things are back to normal now.” 

Myra reaches toward him, maybe to hold his hand or loop her arm around his, and Eddie, already tense, involuntarily flinches away. She withdraws her hand. After a moment Eddie risks a glance in her direction. She looks hurt and sad, but maybe worst is the lack of surprise in her eyes. She sits on the couch next to him in stifling silence for a few more minutes before she gets up and retreats toward the bedroom. 

Eddie thinks, quite coherently, that the inevitability of this isn’t going to make it any easier. And that’s the first time he’s ever really thought about what he needs to do. It heartens him, to have the clarity, even though it’s scary. 

Over the next few normal days, Eddie meets with a handful of lawyers. He doesn’t make any decisions yet, just feels out his options. By the weekend, he checks out a hotel room for himself, so that he has that on standby. 

Eddie tries writing a letter to Myra. He writes a few drafts, starting with: _Neither of us are happy_. Or: _I’m not the same person I used to be_. Or: _I’m sorry_. 

And he tries writing a letter to Richie. He writes a few drafts, starting with: _I should have said something sooner_. Or: _I can’t stop thinking about you_. Or: _I’m sorry_. 

In the end, he forgoes a letter. After work one evening, he waits at the kitchen table for Myra to return from her book club. She can probably sense the charged atmosphere as soon as she walks in the door; she pauses in the threshold and her round eyes land on Eddie, sitting at the kitchen table with nothing in front of him. 

“Myra,” he says. “I think we need to talk.”

**iv.**

“We gotta get him out of here,” Richie says, frantic. Eddie is bleeding out, propped up against the damp cave wall. Quiet, shocked, his hands grip weakly at Richie’s forearms. There’s the sound of crumbling rock behind him, the clown taunting them in its booming, echoing voice, but it’s at the back of Richie’s mind.

Bev says, her voice broken, “How are we supposed to do that, Richie?” 

Richie presses his balled-up coat to the wound. Blood gurgles at Eddie’s lips as he tries to speak. Richie looks down at his hands and… wait. His hands are wrong. Floppy-looking, as if boneless. He presses in firmer and his hand slips through Eddie’s chest. 

Okay. So. “This is a dream,” he says, in the dream. He doesn’t wake up. 

Eddie looks up at him, wide-eyed. There’s no pain on his face anymore, and the blood is gone. Richie looks back down at his chest. The wound has vanished without a trace.

“You’re not dying,” Richie says. He doesn’t know if It is still rampaging behind him, or if his friends are there watching, but he can’t hear anything and he doesn’t turn around. 

He still doesn’t wake up. He’s not sure how to control anything besides his own words and actions, so that’s all he does. 

“Eddie,” he says, shaking with nerves which is so stupid. This is literally happening in his head; the stakes couldn't be lower. He takes a deep breath. “I love you. And it hurts so much, like… It hurts enough that I’ve literally been having a recurring nightmare that you die in my arms and it’s, like, really starting to wear on my mental health.” He laughs, unsteady. “I loved you when we were kids and I love you now, it never went away, it just came back. And it feels like shit, most of the time. And I think, not telling you, not being able to tell anyone, for so long, because I’ve been so… _ashamed_ – I think it really fucked me up, dude. It’s like I can’t even…” Richie pauses, laughs at himself as he continues to tremble. “Yeah. I can’t even do _this_. And I know, I guess, I know I shouldn’t be around you much, for my own sanity, but I can’t help it. You’re the only thing that makes me feel okay.”

Dream-Eddie stares up at him, not responding, his face neutral. Richie supposes he could have Eddie respond in any way he wants—it’s _his_ dream—but he doesn’t really want that. He has no fucking clue how Eddie would respond anyway. Whatever way Richie could play it out, it would feel false. Richie knows Eddie so well, but he has a huge blindspot when it comes to this. He’s never really allowed himself to think about how Eddie might respond. 

“So, yeah,” Richie says, letting out another weak laugh. God, he can’t even say how he feels in a dream without falling back on his humor coping mechanism. “That’s my piece. I don’t think I’m ever gonna tell you that, but I hope this stops the nightmares. Closure and shit.” 

And then, it’s a dream—it’s _his_ dream—so what the hell. Richie leans in and kisses him. It has a slightly off feeling, not like a real kiss. It’s cold and rubbery, and Richie realizes that if he wants to act out all his fantasies he might need a little more practice with this lucid dreaming thing. And of course he knows it’s _not_ Eddie, so that dampens most of the potential enjoyment. 

Still.

He lifts a hand to rest on the side of Eddie’s face, presses in more firmly. 

Then there’s a buzzing sound, a vibration that feels like it’s inside his skull— _is the house still coming down?_ —and Richie wakes up, drooling on his pillow, to realize that his phone is ringing. 

He grabs it from under his pillow, rolls onto his back, and answers, blearily. “Hello?”

“Did I wake you? You’re in New York, right? Isn’t it after eleven there? Jesus, I swear you sleep like a teenager.” 

It’s Jim, his manager. Richie smiles, the familiar voice and even more familiar tone of teasing exasperation sending affectionate warmth through his body. “I was having a good dream, asshole.” 

Jim says, “My apologies,” but the sarcasm doesn’t hit; his tone betrays some nerves and hesitancy.

Richie sits up in bed. “What’s up?” 

Jim cuts right to the chase: “Someone posted a clip of your set from the other night on Twitter.” 

“Oh.” Richie’s stomach flips. He doesn’t need to ask what part of his set. 

“It’s already received some attention but I can get it taken down. This guy shouldn’t have been filming, anyway. Just say the word.” 

Richie shakes his head and rubs a hand over his eyes. “No, no. Leave it up.” 

“Okay,” Jim says. His demeanor shifts slightly, from damage-control mode to something more personable. “I figured you wouldn’t put that in your set if you weren’t ready for this, but I wanted to check.”

“Thanks.” 

“Good stuff by the way. I like the clown bit. Where the hell did you come up with that?”

Richie smiles. If only he knew. “I dunno. Been thinking about my childhood a lot, I guess.” 

“I, uh…” Jim clears his throat. “Is this why you wanna write your own stuff now?” 

“Yeah, pretty much.” 

“That’s great. I’m proud of you.” It’s painfully sincere and Jim must realize this after a beat because he laughs and says, “I sound like I’m your dad.”

“Nah, you don’t sound like _my_ dad,” Richie says darkly, stirring up another laugh from Jim. 

“Well, that’s all I had to say,” Jim says. “Keep up the good work. And, Rich, you know… you can talk to me. Right?” 

“Yeah, I know,” Richie says, chest thrumming with another pang of affection. “Thanks. Goodnight.”

“Richie, it’s the morning.”

Richie laughs and falls back against the pillows. “I said what I said.” 

After he hangs up, he opens Twitter. He long since turned off notifications, so it would have taken him a few days to catch onto this if Jim hadn’t alerted him. 

He finds the video quickly. ‘Already received some attention’ was an understatement. The video has more than five thousand retweets, nearly twenty thousand likes, and hundreds of replies. Richie scrolls through some of the replies, and instantly wishes he hadn’t. One of the top replies is some guy joking that Richie is pretending to be gay as a desperate rebrand after tanking his career. A couple people take this joke seriously and wonder why Richie didn’t come out sooner if he is, in fact, gay. It’s 2016 after all. And that sets off a firestorm of people defending Richie and talking as if they know his life and what this means to him, and that almost pisses him off _more_. Then someone says, _Yeah, but it’s Hollywood. They’re all homos._

Richie snorts a laugh at that, but then he makes himself stop reading the replies. He doesn’t get off Twitter yet, though, and spends another hour clicking around. Several comedians with whom he has a professional friendship have already tweeted their support. None of them reached out to him directly, though. Richie has never been so grateful to have a manager. No doubt Jim has already written five versions of a response tweet for Richie to choose between. 

Speaking of Jim, he must see dollar signs in these numbers. Or maybe that’s pessimistic. Jim is a good guy and he really does want what’s best for Richie. He was encouraging of Richie’s sabbatical to New York, said he hopes it will ‘get the creative juices flowing.’ He even offered to help book some gigs or set up meetings. Richie told him thanks but he needs some space. 

He told him it wasn’t personal but it sort of is. Richie has spent the last ten years of his career somewhat dependent on and obsessed with Jim. They speak almost every day. They’re close friends, the closest Richie had for a long time. The sudden distance probably has Jim worried more than anything. 

Richie also realized, when he returned to L.A., that Jim looks a lot like Eddie. Both a few inches shy of six feet, short dark hair, expressive eyes and brows, and hands that do a lot of the talking for them. More than that, they have a similar energy, a similar way of handling Richie. They both notice him, see through his front, and have a habit of fixing him with sad, knowing looks that resonate in his bones. 

Laying on his hotel bed, Richie sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. Did he really move away from Derry and grow up and forget only to subconsciously find himself an Eddie replacement? Figures. 

Like with anything good in his life, Richie doesn’t know how to give it room to breathe, so he sinks his claws in and never lets go. 

So he’s trying to change that. Not talk to Jim for a while. Not talk to Eddie for a while. ( _He’s married and you’re an idiot_ , he reminds himself, the familiar cadence he’s been marching to for the past few days. _What did you think was gonna happen? Now you’ve overplayed your hand and fucked everything up_.) 

Richie groans and sits up and looks around the empty hotel room, the gold tones in the wallpaper and bedspread reflecting late morning light. He has the rest of his New York stay ahead of him. Room to breathe. 

Richie gathers his resolve and takes a shower and orders room service. Then he eats Eggs Benedict in bed with wet hair and sulks a while longer. Then he forces himself to sit at the desk and work on his laptop; he fields a couple emails from Jim, authorizes a tweet to respond to all of this. That eats up most of his energy for the day, so then he sprawls out in bed and goes on Twitter again. In the early afternoon, his phone buzzes a few times. First a text from Bill, so earnest that it could make Richie cry, if he were sloppier with his emotional repression: _Hey, buddy. I’m proud of you. Here if you want to talk_. Then a text from Bev, linking Richie’s coming out tweet, followed by a rainbow of heart emojis—subtle touch, Marsh—and signed _We love you_ , from both Bev and Ben. Mike, he figures, is not very online, so he texts Bill back, asking him to break the news to him. Half an hour later, his phone lights up with an incoming call from Mike. 

“Ugh. Just send me a text,” he mutters, but he answers it with a chipper voice anyway. “Hey, Mikey.” 

“Hey, Rich,” Mike says, and Richie forgets his mild irritation at the velvety sound of his voice, which he hasn’t heard in a month. Maybe phone calls are alright after all. “Bill just called me to tell me that you’re gay.”

 _God_. Richie would give his right arm to hear that phone conversation. And he finds he appreciates Mike’s bluntness at the moment. Of course Mike, the one who always faced what needed to be done with grim determination, isn’t going to talk around this. 

“Yup,” Richie says, popping the ‘p.’

“Well, message received,” Mike says, so dry that Richie starts laughing. Mike chuckles and adds, “Sorry if I sound distracted, I’m driving. If you don’t mind me asking, your token… Did it have anything to do with this?” 

Richie lays back against the pillows again and pinches his eyes shut. _This intuitive little bitch_. He weighs his options before saying, heavily, “Yeah.” 

When Richie doesn’t elaborate, Mike says, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” 

And Richie doesn’t. He says, “Sorry,” and Mike tells him not to apologize. Richie changes the subject and asks about Mike’s travels. He made less money than the rest of the Losers but he lived modestly, so he’s saved enough for a couple months of traveling, to see the rest of the country now that his post in Derry has ended. This week, Mike is somewhere in the Carolinas, enjoying beaches and barbecue. When the conversation dwindles, Richie wishes him a happy retirement and hangs up, whatever energy he had left officially drained. 

He’s been going in circles for six hours and needs something to break the cycle. Then Kristen texts him inviting him to dinner. Richie replies, _Yeah, see you soon. Give me a sec to get dressed_.

He makes it to the restaurant before she does. He gets a table and waters and waits for ten minutes, looking at his phone to assure any witnesses that he’s expecting someone. He’s not here alone. But if he’s going to join the club of celebrities with sad alone-at-a-restaurant paparazzi photos this is the day for it. 

Nah, he’s not A-list enough for that. He’s not even B-list enough for that. 

When he ran off the stage in Chicago a month ago and ghosted the rest of his tour leg, he only got, like, one nasty TMZ article speculating on the particulars of his drug addiction. It was almost disappointing. 

He texts Kristen: _I got a table_. The polite way to ask: _where the fuck are you?_

She replies: _How did you get here from Long Island so fast?_ Then: _omw. 10 min_.

Oh. Okay, he sees what happened. 

Kristen arrives with a frazzled air about her, curly hair particularly wild. “Sorry,” she says. “I thought it was gonna take you an hour to get here.” 

He frowns. “Yeah, I’m not… staying there anymore. I’m at the Hilton on 35th now, so I just… walked.”

She settles in, slings her purse over the chair and takes a few gulps of water. “What happened to your little friend?” 

“Are you saying ‘little’ as in… he’s literally small because then I agree and I can’t wait to tell him you said that, or are you saying ‘little’ to be, like, cute and condescending?” 

“It’s both and you know it’s both and you’re dodging the question.” 

“Nothing- nothing happened. I had been staying with him— _and his wife_ ,” he adds in a rush, eyebrows twitching, “for a week. My welcome was thoroughly worn out.”

She narrows her eyes. “Is he married?”

“Yeah, he’s married.” Richie can’t say the sentence with a normal inflection; he overthinks it, aims for casual and lands somewhere near rigid and strained. 

“To, like, a woman?”

“You know, that’s exactly what I said.” 

Kristen examines his face for a few seconds, before she hums and looks down to her menu.

They order. Richie recounts his earlier musings about lonely pap shots (“I considered ordering a bunch of drinks for myself just to egg them on.”) and Kristen confirms, point-blank, that he’s not famous enough to be the subject of a sad photo meme. “It’s only funny when it’s a big celebrity,” she says. “It’s the juxtaposition, right? Keanu Reeves bummed out on a park bench by himself. Fucking hilarious. With you, it would just be…”

“What, Kristen? It would just be _what?_ ” 

She laughs, twirling pasta around her fork. “Comedy is the unexpected, alright? What do you want me to say, Tozier?” Her face settles into a mild smile and then something more serious. “So, uh, ‘to set the record straight, I’m not,’ huh? Who do you pay to write these?” 

Richie groans. She’s referring to the tweet that was sent from Richie’s account this afternoon. Of all the options, it was the least stupid, believe it or not. Anything with an ounce of sincerity triggered his gag reflex; he doesn’t want to thank anyone for their ‘support’ or finally ‘be himself’ and he definitely doesn’t want to start using the fucking rainbow emoji. 

He doesn’t even want to ‘help one kid feel normal.’ Fuck that kid. Richie’s been in it alone for forty years, he can keep going. 

So, yeah, he chose the stupid joke.

He looks back at Kristen. Then he says, “Can I be really fucking honest for a second?” 

“Maybe,” she says. 

“He didn’t ask me to leave, but… after my show, he got… weird.” It’s humiliating to admit; it’s bad enough without saying Eddie’s name or any specifics. He swallows hard. “He barely… looked at me after.”

“So, he thought your show was shitty and didn’t want to tell you?” 

“No, he would have been _thrilled_ to tell me my show sucked, believe me.” Richie smiles at the thought, despite everything. “That wasn’t it. It was… Well, you know, what I told him in the show– I mean, I mean, what I _said_ –” Richie’s throat closes, and he can already see understanding flash across Kristen’s face; he can’t backtrack his way out of this. 

“Wait, holy shit. Were you not out to him before that?”

“Uh–”

“ _Richie_.” 

“What?” His eyes are wide. He clings to his facade of ignorance like a life raft, fingers slipping. “Is that bad?”

“It’s a little fucking impersonal, don’t you think?” 

“I didn’t want to make it a _thing_ –”

“So you sold tickets?” 

“Well–”

“That put a lot of pressure on him.”

Richie feels sick. He stares at his heap of fettuccine and thinks: _worms_. He swallows the saliva collecting in the back of his mouth. “I was trying to take off the pressure…”

Kristen’s eyebrows falter, sympathy slipping through her frustration. “I think you miscalculated this one.” 

“Fuck.” Richie’s stomach churns and he thinks _worms_ again, which is an unhelpful intrusive thought when he’s trying to keep his just-swallowed dinner down. _Fuck_. He shoves up from the table and makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up in the sink.

So, Richie’s doing… fine. He actually writes a lot. Most of it is too bitter and angry to ever see the light of day, but it’s a process. Or whatever. 

There’s no good reason to be in New York anymore, though. All he’s doing is staying holed up in his hotel room and writing and practicing sets in the bathroom mirror. The mirror’s bigger and nicer and cleaner than the one in his own bathroom, back in L.A., but he could be doing this anywhere. He could have done this anywhere, from the beginning. But God bless Eddie for living in a city with so many excuses to visit and stay.

One afternoon, still wearing the rumpled t-shirt he slept in, Richie sets his phone on the counter next to the sink. The lights in the bathroom are bright, but with a warm and flattering tone; the setting is white and sterile, and so different from anywhere he’d ever perform. He kicks aside his damp towel from that morning, heaped on the floor, and assumes a wide stance in front of the mirror. 

Then he hits the record button on his phone and, as the seconds on the timer count up, he takes an idea out of his pocket and begins to untangle it. 

“So, in my childhood friend’s suicide note—yeah I know, that’s a hell of an opening line—and, by the way, his note had a hell of an opening line. He started with, ‘I know what this must seem like, but this is not a suicide note.’” Richie takes in a slow, deep breath through his nose. He lets it out in a rush through his lips, cheeks puffing. “So… Yeah, I mean, obviously it was a suicide note. We can all say things that aren’t true, Stanley. From now on, I’ll start my shows by saying, ‘I know what this must seem like, but this is not stand-up comedy.’ 

“Anyway, in my childhood friend’s suicide note, he wrote: ‘Be who you want to be. Be proud.’” He takes a long pause, ignores the stirring in his chest. “It was a very positive suicide note. Very self-helpy. Which is… ironic. That line, ‘Be who you want to be, be proud,’ that’s a pretty generic line. You could put that in a commercial, sell fuckin’ iPhones with it, I wouldn’t bat an eye. Actually, that’s more of a Samsung line. But reading that, in a letter from my childhood friend who just killed himself, to me, a forty-year-old closeted comedian who tells other people’s jokes for a living, I guess it just… hit. It felt a little bit personal. And it didn’t really feel encouraging. It felt, like…” He scowls and points at himself at the mirror. “‘I see you, Richie. I know you’re lying to everyone. Cut the crap.’

“Which is fucking _paranoid_ , I know. He sent the same letter to five of our other friends, by the way, and he didn’t even personalize them—which, you know, fair enough, we hadn’t seen each other in almost thirty years.

“So, it probably wasn’t a targeted attack. But the really fun part is that I’ll _never know for sure_.” Richie laughs in a scary rush of air. He stops it quickly; he doesn’t like the grotesque way his face contorts. “Anyway. I had these words, ‘Be who you want to be, be proud,’ kicking around in my head, and with these marching orders, I fire my writing team. I alienate my manager. I move to New York for a month. I come out, publicly. Sort of. I come out, privately. Sort of. I fuck up both by treating them the same way. It’s too big and too small, at the same time. It’s impersonal _and_ it’s spectacle. It’s all performance, though.

“And somehow, I don’t think that’s what Stan meant. If he meant anything at all. But I guess, ‘Be who you want to be,’ you could argue that’s asking for a performance. Who the fuck _is_ who they want to be? I wouldn’t trust someone who _is_ who they want to be. That person’s a fucking cop.

“And ‘be proud’? Don’t get me fucking started on ‘be proud.’ You can reach out from beyond the grave to tell me what to do but don’t you dare tell me how to feel. That little shit. I mean, ‘be proud’ of what?” His voice cracks and it’s not funny. “I guess I’ve always been well acquainted with shame. Little buddy on my shoulder.” 

He lets his right shoulder droop under shame’s weight. He lifts a hand to mime petting its head, feeding it from his palm—and flinches away when he gets bit. 

“And yeah it’s probably because I’m gay, so I’m not fucking special, that’s why ‘pride’ is such a big thing for them—for us, whatever—Jesus. ‘Us.’” He rolls his eyes. “That’s a shoe I won’t be breaking in any time soon. Whatever. Shame is fucking comfortable. It’s a warm, dark cocoon. It’s already broken in.

“And maybe it’s fucked up that I haven’t been attracted to someone or loved someone without feeling shitty about it, but, look, for a male comedian that’s better than the alternative. I’m not gonna get MeToo’d, alright? I’m not gonna casually grope some hot young intern because my every move is, like– I’m wearing ankle monitors, you know? I put ‘em on myself. Or they were put on me, and I got comfortable and forgot to take them off.” 

He reaches toward the mirror, heavy and slow like moving underwater or through a dream. Then before reaching the glass, he lets his hand fall limp to his side.

“So, all I’m saying is, maybe _I_ don’t need to be proud. Maybe everyone else needs to learn some fucking humility.”

He looks down to his phone, face up on the counter, the seconds counting up, the volume level fluctuating with whatever ambient noise floats through the bathroom. He looks back to his face in the mirror. 

“I know I’m taking all of this a little personally. Getting… defensive. I don’t think that’s what he meant. But I guess I’ll never know for sure.” 

Richie stops the recording. He frowns down at his phone for a moment before he mutters, “Fucking unusable,” and deletes it. 

A couple days later, Richie leaves his hermitage, again due to a text from Kristen. She’s invited him to see a comedian with her, and Richie needs the fresh air and the distraction. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll get another jolt of inspiration.

It’s a small theater, not primarily a comedy club, with velvet curtains hanging on the walls and rows of red chairs sloping toward the stage. It’s pretty full when they walk in, and Kristen leads the way down the side aisle—and doesn’t stop until they’re almost to the stage. 

Richie hesitates behind her. “Oh, god, I don’t wanna sit in the front row.” 

“Why not?” 

“The guy’s gonna try to talk to me.” His protests fall on deaf ears. Kristen makes her way to the seats and they’re dead center. Richie follows reluctantly and settles down. He feels bad sitting in the front, too, considering his height. But at least he has leg room. He slides down in his seat and stretches his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. “Who is this again?”

“His name is, uh.” Kristen pauses her rustling as she stows her purse under the seat. “Ian Kaplan.” 

“Ian Kaplan?” Richie repeats. The name means nothing to him. “Okay.”

After a few more minutes of absently scrolling his phone and chatting with Kristen, the house lights dim. Richie pockets his phone and joins in the polite applause. The guy walks out on stage and waves to the crowd—he’s dressed in standard comedian attire, a sport coat and dark jeans—and he fidgets with the microphone for a second, his anxious muttering unfortunately amplified, before he manages to get it off the stand.

That’s when Richie recognizes him and his mouth goes dry.

While Richie stares, Eddie lifts the microphone, smiles nervously, and begins.

“Hey, everyone. How’re you doing? I’ve never done this before. I’m a stand-up virgin.” He pauses and the theater is quiet apart from a few weak laughs. “Hm. Yeah, I was warned that that would not get a laugh, but I tried it anyway. So, how are you all doing tonight?” 

There’s some scattered applause. Richie gets his wits about him enough to turn to Kristen and give her a bewildered look. She smiles at him and raises her eyebrows like, _You’ll see_.

Eddie is off to a rocky start, gripping the microphone with both hands as he stands stiff as a board in the center of the stage. “I guess I asked you that already. I’m doing alright. I’m getting divorced.” 

Eddie chuckles nervously. The pit of Richie’s stomach drops out. _What the fuck is he doing…_

“Please hold your applause. No, it’s a good thing. It was a long time coming.”

Eddie appears to consciously loosen himself, shake out his arms and shoulders. He begins to move, taking a few steps to his right and then paces the stage as he continues his monologue.

“There are basically two reasons why I needed to do this. Reason the first: My wife is a lot like my mother. And I was aware of it from the beginning. Does that make it better or worse? Like, I guess the thing about Oedipus is that he doesn’t know that he’s fucking his mom, right? So it’s a tragedy. Otherwise it’s… horror. And you’re Norman Bates.” 

Eddie grimaces as he waits for a few stray barks of laughter. 

“I was also told that would not get a laugh, but I think it’s funny, fuck you guys.” 

Richie laughs, loudly, for the first time since Eddie started. It seems to hearten Eddie on stage; he stops his nervous pacing and his posture relaxes. 

“And the second reason why I’m divorcing my wife is... I’m gay. This one I was not so aware of, not until very recently.”

Eddie meets Richie’s eye for the first time, but briefly, just a glance. Richie starts to think he might know why Eddie is up on stage doing this, and it has nothing to do with him suddenly deciding he has a future in comedy. This slow, cautious realization—that he doesn’t allow to fully form in his mind yet—does not put Richie at ease. It’s a thought that he’s had before and always banished from his mind, like the snap of a rubber band on his wrist. He knows letting it linger would only hurt worse. 

Eddie waves a hand and backtracks: “Well, that’s an oversimplification. I was aware, sort of, but I didn’t think I had to do anything about it, like I thought I could continue… Well. That’s depressing, we don’t have to get into that.”

He draws in a deep breath and doesn’t take the microphone away from his face so everyone can hear it. He begins to pace again, one hand waving along as he speaks.

“Anyway, I have this friend. We grew up together. We were inseparable, insufferable best friends, you know the type. Always arguing and feeding off each other’s energy and he really knew how to push my buttons and he loved to do it. And he’s… well, he’s never mean. Sometimes he would go too far on accident, but he knew that I loved it just as much. He’s just a really funny guy and we had so much fun together, just… blowing off steam, you know? Sometimes you have to get together with your best friend and yell about nothing, and it kinda puts the world on hold for a second, and everything seems more manageable and less scary and… brighter.”

Eddie meets Richie’s transfixed gaze for another fleeting moment, but he seems hesitant to hold it for much longer than that. And that suits Richie just fine; eyes already burning, he’s not sure how much more he can take before he falls apart. The half-formed thought pries at the edges of his mind again: _What if Eddie…_ He lifts an arm to roughly blot his nose. ( _Snaps the rubber band on his wrist_.) He feels Kristen pat his arm, encouraging and comforting. 

“This is sappy stand-up, sorry,” Eddie says, huffing another laugh. He shakes out his arms, bounces on his toes a few times. “Hey, uh, a skeleton walks into a bar. He says to the bartender, ‘Give me a beer and a mop.’” 

A couple members of the audience humor him with a laugh. 

“Okay, there, got my mojo back. So, this guy… Well. My mom and I moved away from my hometown during my first year of high school. Which felt so cruel, like how often do you find someone you mesh with so perfectly? Of course your parents don’t take it seriously, you’re just a kid and you’ll meet lots of people, but I’ve been around for a while now so I can appreciate how fucking rare it is.”

Eddie’s voice wavers on the end of it and he takes a long pause, staring at the floor in front of him. He breathes. Then he shakes his head and keeps going. 

“And, well, I didn’t see him for almost thirty years. We met again, about a month ago, at a Chinese restaurant in Maine with a few of our other friends, and it was like nothing had changed. Isn’t that crazy? Anyway, anyway, I can’t recount this entire story or we’ll be here all night. So I’ll skip to the good part. The funny part, hopefully. Which is how this friend unwittingly played a part in the dissolution of my marriage.”

There are some murmuring laughs; Richie's stomach flips again. He realizes he's bouncing his leg incessantly in an attempt to wear off some energy. 

“So, my friend was going to be in New York for a few weeks,” Eddie begins. “My adult friend who has a job and money. And what do I do? I invite him to stay with my wife and I. For a few weeks. Yeah, I can see the looks on some of your faces, that’s exactly how my wife looked at me. And I, uh… Didn’t tell her until he was at our house. Sitting at our kitchen table.” 

There are a few groans, mostly from the women in the audience. 

“I know, I know,” Eddie says. “I never claimed to be husband of the year. But she agrees to it! So, now we have this _You, Me and Dupree_ thing going, but gayer. My wife cooked breakfast for this guy and she hates his guts. I ditched seeing the in-laws to ‘show him New York’—he’s _lived_ in New York. I suggested going to a restaurant that closed three years ago. Did you guys know Renata closed? Yeah. In 2013, apparently. Who knew. Maybe people who get out more often than I do. And this is really the cherry on top of this pathetic cake. Wait, is it a cake? What is the cherry on top of? A sundae? I don’t know because I was never allowed to eat dessert as a kid.”

When there’s some bubbling laughter from the audience, Eddie darkly assures them that he’s not joking. 

“Anyway, cherry on top of this shitshow, my friend stayed in our guest room. The guest room is where I usually sleep, due to my aforementioned closeted gayness and also my wife’s sleep apnea.” Eddie adds, with a deadpan delivery that Richie admires, “Yeah, I love my life.”

Eddie starts pacing again, but he seems more comfortable now, his movements fluid. 

“So, I… an adult in my own home… slept on the couch. For a solid week. On some level I had to know what I was doing, right? That I was trying to piss her off. I didn’t want to be in this marriage anymore, but I was raised to never ask for what I want and especially to never inconvenience others, so what do you do beside bully your wife into leaving you? But with… plausible deniability.”

Eddie stops pacing the stage to lean against the microphone stand.

“That’s the thing about me. I am completely impervious to my own intentions and desires. It’s baffling. Therapists love me because it doesn’t take much work on their part to get a breakthrough. I’ll, uh… God.” He rubs a hand over his face and laughs. “I started going to the gym and working out due to some latent homosexual inclination, and I am just now realizing this. Like, right now, on stage.” He stares distantly while the crowd’s laughter simmers. “Fuck. I got abs when I could have just downloaded Grindr and been, like, one-hundred percent more successful. Though I’m sure the abs would help my Grindr game; this is real chicken-and-egg territory now.” 

Eddie pauses, grinning at the sincere wave of laughter. Richie joins it, feeling some combination of pride and possessiveness over the rest of the audience reacting to Eddie like this. Maybe Richie liked to imagine himself the only one who knows how funny Eddie can be.

Then Eddie’s face falls again into seriousness. “Actually, I’m gonna be pedantic about that last joke. My success rate has been zero so far, so a one-hundred percent increase is still zero. Yeah. I love telling a roomful of strangers that I haven’t been getting any dick, this is fun. Um. Jesus Christ, where was I?”

He chuckles along with the audience as he scratches his head. 

“Denying myself what I want, right… I’m a fucking ascetic. You know those monk guys? Do any of you know what I’m talking about? Ascetics? Do they teach this in school anymore? Do they have school anymore? Anyway, anyway, I will walk past a Cinnabon just to smell it; I’ll go out of my way just to get a whiff of that sinful smell, and I haven’t had Cinnabon in, like, seven years.”

He pauses with a guilty smile. “That’s a lie I tell to seem more normal. I have _never_ had Cinnabon. I’m gonna get Cinnabon tomorrow. Fuck it.” There’s a few cheers, laughs, and more when he says: “ _And_ I’m gonna download Grindr.”

He throws his hands up and corrects before the line can properly land: “That was a joke because, if it’s not obvious, I’m not really interested in playing the field. Because the worst thing out of all of this—really—the worst thing is I never told this guy how I feel about him.”

He pauses for a long moment and Richie thinks he could hear a pin drop in this theater; no one breathes, no one moves or rustles in their seats. Richie least of all, his mind stumbling over itself, getting no further than: _What if, what if, what if–?_

Eddie takes a deep breath. His nerves are apparent again, like when he first started, shoulders stiff and straight. 

“So I want to do it now. Richie, I…”

The audience breaks out in whispers and murmurs. People twist around in their seats, trying to find the guy in question. Richie fights the urge to sink down in his seat; Kristen’s hand is on his elbow again, a light and reassuring squeeze. He hears someone behind him say, too loudly, “Is that Richie Tozier?” 

Eddie stands at the edge of the stage, the hand by his side clenching and unclenching with nerves. He holds Richie’s gaze and offers a small smile before he says, “Richie, I love you. Like, I’m _in_ love with you. And I know that’s a big thing to say, and I’m not taking it lightly, but… I think about you all the time. And I feel sort of… insane, and I think that’s what it’s supposed to be, like it’s scary, but there’s… potential? If you can capture it, or funnel it into something, put it to work. You know, it’s like a waterfall. It’s wild, but if you tame it, build a dam, generate some hydro-electricity– okay, I can tell I’m losing you, and it’s a muddled metaphor since dams are actually bad for ecosystems, like fish populations, I saw a documentary, anyway–” Eddie pauses, draws in a ragged breath. “I love you so much and it scares the hell out of me.” 

Richie feels like he’s floating outside of his body, watching this happen in slow motion. He almost feels nauseous, and tries to suppress that because that would be _really_ fucking bad timing. His half-formed thought ( _What if Eddie…_ ) morphs, but it’s one he still can’t complete ( _Eddie does… He does…_ ).

Meanwhile, Eddie assesses the edge of the stage, the maybe-three-foot drop. He looks like he’s considering just hopping down but instead he sits first and swings his legs over the side. And then he's standing on the same level as Richie, close enough that Richie could reach out and touch him. 

Eddie says now, without the aide of the microphone, his voice the same familiar timbre it always is, “I wanted to tell you. I wanted to be brave, like you told me I am.” He smiles sadly at Richie for another moment before he looks back up to the audience, lifts the mic again, and says, “Well, that's it. That's the show. I guess you all can leave now.”

Eddie looks back to Richie, and Richie can barely hear the smattering of applause over his own pulse pounding in his head. A few people in the back might get up to leave but most stay seated, waiting with bated breath for the resolution.

Richie is on his feet before he realizes he’s standing up, and he stands close to Eddie, an arm’s length away. And he’s holding onto Eddie’s sleeve like it anchors him, fingers twisting in the fabric. Eddie watches his face, obviously nervous but with an undercurrent of hope.

Richie says, “With some workshopping, that could be a pretty solid set.”

Eddie lets out a laugh, breathy, freeing, a release of tension. Then his face settles back into a smile ( _easy, relieved, like slipping out of your work clothes_ ). 

“So…” Eddie turns his hand over so he’s holding Richie’s, fingers knit together. “Do I need to wait for your next gig for you to answer me, or…?”

“Yeah, we can only communicate via stand-up now, them’s the rules.”

Eddie offers the mic, eyebrows raised. 

Richie bops the microphone with his palm once, testing. It’s on. 

“Love you, too,” he says shortly before dropping it onto his seat behind him, stepping in closer to take Eddie’s face in his hands, and kissing him. Eddie might be expecting it because he rises on his toes and wraps his arms around Richie’s waist. 

There’s an explosion of applause and whoops and whistles, and Richie’s aware of that—kind of—but mostly he’s aware of the way that Eddie inhales through his nose when their lips meet and how Eddie presses against him and tilts his face up to deepen the kiss. 

After not too long, Richie pulls back, feeling totally overwhelmed. He turns toward the crowd and projects his voice to the back of the house. “Alright, well. We’re gonna… go… Tip your bartenders.” Eddie laughs next to him, giddy, hiding his face against Richie’s shoulder. 

Out on the street they grip each other’s arms and pull each other along, still laughing from momentum and released tension. 

“Where are we going?” Eddie asks, breathless. 

Richie pauses, reels around and tugs Eddie out of the way of the sidewalk traffic to huddle under the awning of a closed cafe. “I have no idea. Just– away.” 

“I actually have a hotel room nearby,” Eddie says. “Because of the– the divorce thing.” 

“Oh.” Everything… slows. Richie chews his bottom lip. “I have a hotel room, too…”

Eddie’s smile drops, as some careless giddiness leaves him. “Yeah, sorry, we don’t have to– not tonight, that’s moving too fast.”

“Hey, hey,” Richie says. He reaches to hold onto Eddie’s wrists, where his hands are raised in front of his chest. 

Eddie shakes his head, not meeting his eye. “I know that was kind of… crazy, what I did, and I probably shouldn’t have done that so publicly, so I understand if you need time to– you don’t owe me anything–”

Richie says, “Hey,” again and then takes Eddie’s face in both hands, cradling his jaw, and kisses him. 

Right there on the street. They’ve already kissed in front of a live, cheering audience, so this feels, actually, more private, sheltered in the shadows. So Richie opens his mouth and runs his tongue against his teeth, slipping inside his lower lip. Eddie’s hands flatten against his chest before sliding down his torso. His touch is slow and firm, as if savoring him. 

Then Eddie pulls back with a sharp inhale. His eyes are dark as he stares up at Richie. “Where are you staying?”

It takes Richie a second of dumb, empty blinking before he can formulate a response. “Um. The Hilton on 35th.”

“Okay,” Eddie says. “I’m closer. Let’s go.” 

And Eddie sets off down the sidewalk, leaving Richie to scramble after him, laughing. 

“You really, uh,” Richie starts, as he falls into step beside him. “You really never had Cinnabon?” 

Eddie shakes his head, laughing again. “I don’t know, I guess not. It was just– a, like, motif, I guess. The Cinnabon isn’t the point.”

“A motif?”

“Yeah, a motif.” Eddie’s face is flushed; he still looks exhilarated. 

“Am I the Cinnabon?” Richie asks, grinning. 

“Yeah, you might be the Cinnabon.” 

Richie chuckles. “I think you might be good at stand-up.” 

**v.**

After the divorce and everything else, Eddie rents an apartment on the Lower East Side. It’s a third floor walkup and it’s tiny, but Eddie loves it. He’s not sure, long term, where he’s going. For now, he’s staying at his job. He sold his car. He walks a lot now. Richie splits his time between L.A. and New York. He’s writing, between a few one-off shows in Austin or Minneapolis or wherever. Sometimes Eddie takes the time to fly out with him, sometimes not. Richie keeps joking about writing a memoir, and it becomes increasingly apparent that he’s seriously considering it. Eddie encourages him. 

They’re figuring things out. They fell into something really intense, but they held on and made it through to the other side. They’ve mellowed. But the intensity helped Eddie to take that leap. Made him brave and insane and uninhibited enough to turn his life upside down. Eddie, generally, is less afraid of strong emotions now. This is the first time in his life they haven’t hurt him. Richie is in this with him, and he either absorbs the shock or he gives it back at full strength. Richie lets him be happy and sad and angry; Richie lets him love him with the kind of full-throated intensity that Eddie has always been too afraid to show, to let himself go there. A few months down the line and he’s still surprised by his own capacity. 

It’s really good. Maybe it’s the fact that Eddie is finally with someone he’s actually attracted to, but everything feels easier. It feels natural, effortless. He doesn’t spend as much time psyching himself out, interrogating his own desires. Wondering, _Is this real? Do I really feel this way? Or do I just want to feel this way? Do I think I ought to?_

With Richie, he wants and he takes. Not that it’s always that simple; in the beginning, there was a lot of time spent lying in bed, Richie gently extracting information: _What do you want? What do you like? What feels good?_ and Eddie setting his jaw and staring at the ceiling while he dragged answers out of himself. He felt like a pinned frog ready for dissection, but he willingly cracked open his ribcage for Richie. And, he later realized, as he was falling asleep, that he had never been asked. No one had previously asked him what he wants, what feels good to him. 

So, Eddie is slowly unlearning his alienation from his own body. It helps to be so interested in Richie’s body; he forgets about himself sometimes. 

When summer rolls around, Eddie spends most of his time apartment-hunting. It gets so hot and stuffy in his tiny place, and Richie is thinking about officially relocating to New York, so they need something roomier and more permanent. Richie is amenable to each suggestion Eddie makes; maybe they should buy a place together, instead of renting? It’s a sensible idea, wrapped up in a metric ton of neediness. Eddie felt bad when he suggested it, and he felt worse when Richie responded with enthusiasm. Doesn’t Richie realize Eddie is trying to trap him? Eddie doesn’t _want_ to trap Richie, but… that’s probably what he’s doing, right? He just doesn’t realize his own dark motives.

So Eddie drags his feet a little, and he lets a couple perfect apartments slip through his fingers, just because he wants to make sure Richie has a chance to back out. Richie doesn’t back out. Instead, he mourns the loss of the Williamsburg loft but reassures Eddie that they’ll find another place just as nice. And now Eddie has _that_ to feel guilty about, too. 

Everything is busy enough that one morning, when Richie says to him, “You know, it’s the anniversary of when Mike called us,” Eddie is surprised. 

Eddie glances up from his phone—where he had been reading an email from the real estate agent—and looks at Richie. How could he have forgotten? 

Richie leans against the kitchen counter, just more than an arm’s length away from Eddie, and sips his coffee. His expression is hard to read. It’s somber, but hesitant, like he’s waiting to see how Eddie will react before he commits one way or another. 

Eddie swallows. “Wow, yeah. So that means it’s been a year since… Stan died.” 

Richie nods; his expression doesn’t change, except for the crease between his eyebrows that deepens. “Yeah. It’s been… quite the year. It’s a weird feeling.” 

“It is,” Eddie agrees softly. 

Richie takes another sip of coffee and then sets the mug down on the counter with a loud clink. “It’s like– um.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m… happy Mike called us sometimes? Is that fucking awful? Even if it means that Stan… Because otherwise, we never would have…” Richie briefly gestures between the two of them, not meeting Eddie’s eyes. “But I’m also just so… sad and– fucking _angry_ – that it had to come to that at all. It’s so… senseless. What was the point?”

Eddie’s not sure exactly which event Richie is referring to. So much of it was senseless: forgetting their childhood, forgetting each other; Stan killing himself in some misguided self-sacrifice, for friends he hadn’t seen in decades; and the very beginning, Georgie being killed, setting them all down this path that still hasn’t ended, just stretches on past the horizon. Maybe there’s no meaning to any of it, just inertia. 

But Eddie knows exactly what Richie feels. He stands up from the kitchen table and pulls Richie into a hug; Richie’s chin thunks down on his shoulder, clumsy, and he breathes shakily while Eddie rubs his back. 

“We should talk to them today,” Eddie says quietly, meaning the Losers. “I’ll try to set something up. Okay?”

Richie nods. “Yeah, that would be– that’d be nice.” He pulls back from the hug with a weak laugh. “Can’t talk to anyone else about it, so.” 

“You _can_ , you just have to disguise it as an elaborate metaphor for comedy purposes,” Eddie says, grinning. 

Richie smiles back and turns away to retrieve his coffee. “That’s the best therapy there is.”

“What are you doing today?” Eddie asks him. 

“Phone calls,” Richie says darkly into his mug. 

Eddie laughs. “Hey, um.” He twists back to the table to hold up his phone. “Amy has a new place for us. Do you want to go see it after work today?” Richie’s face lights up and he says he does, so Eddie gives him the details as he starts to collect his shoes and keys. “You should just meet me there. We can grab dinner after.”

Eddie pauses once he gets his shoes on, looking imploringly at Richie. He’s not dressed for the day yet, in the threadbare t-shirt and boxers he slept in. He stands with one bare foot resting against his shin, flamingo-legged, and leaning against the counter. His boxers are kind of baggy and unflattering, and worn mostly to bed, but on one leg it reads ‘BIG’ above a cartoon of a rooster, and well. It’s not false advertising. Eddie’s not sure whether Richie bought them for himself or if they were a gift. 

Either way, he feels almost lightheaded with affection. 

Richie smiles back at him, his eyebrows and lips quirking in confused-amusement, as Eddie continues to stare. “You’re gonna be late,” Richie says, waving him off with one hand. “Go on, get.” 

“Come here,” Eddie says, but Richie doesn’t have to move because Eddie closes the distance between them to kiss him. It’s a bit longer and deeper than a quick goodbye kiss, enough that Eddie can smell and then taste the coffee on Richie’s breath. When he pulls back he says, “Have a good day,” and turns toward the door. 

Maybe it takes half a second for Richie’s brain to come back online. He stammers and calls after him, “Y-yeah, you too. See you later.”

Eddie throws him one more smile before he opens the door. He bounds down the two and a half flights of stairs to the street and hurries to catch the train.

**Author's Note:**

> The PsychoBarn exhibition at the Met was a real thing in summer and fall 2016 (sometimes research gives you an incredible gift) so, cited: <https://www.metmuseum.org/exhibitions/listings/2016/cornelia-parker>  
> Also, borrowed a quote from the description for an exhibition: <https://www.metmuseum.org/exhibitions/listings/2016/manus-x-machina>
> 
> I'm on tumblr @[skeilig](https://skeilig.tumblr.com/)


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